The Lying Life of Adults. Elena Ferrante
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But Vittoria wanted above all to say bad things about my father, and insisted that I listen, she wanted me to understand clearly why she was angry with him. So—sitting on the chair arranging her flowers, I doing the same, squatting nearby—she started in on the story of the fight over the house, the only thing left by the parents to their five children.
It was a long story and was hurtful to me. Your father—she said—didn’t want to give in. He was adamant: the house belongs to all of us, it’s Papa and Mamma’s house, they bought it with their money, and I’m the only one who helped them, and to help them I put my money into it. I answered: it’s true, Andrea, but all of you are settled, one way or another you have jobs, but I have nothing, and the others agree about leaving it all to me. But he said that we had to sell the house and divide the proceeds among the five of us. If the others didn’t want their share, fine, but he wanted his. There was an argument that went on for months: your father on one side and the three others and I on the other. Since no solution could be found, Enzo intervened—look at him, with that face, those eyes, that smile. At the time, no one knew about our great love story but your father, who was his friend, my brother, and our adviser. Enzo defended me, he said: Andrea, your sister can’t compensate you, where would she get the money. And your father said to him: you shut up, you’re nobody, you don’t know how to put two words together, what do you have to do with my business and my sister. Enzo was too distressed, he said: all right, let’s have the house appraised and I’ll give you your share out of my own pocket. But your father started cursing, he yelled at him: how can you give me the money, you shit, you’re just a cop, where would you find the money, and if you have it that means you’re a thief, a thief in a uniform. And so on like that, you see? Your father went so far as to tell him—listen carefully, he seems like a refined man but he’s crude—that he, Enzo, was not only screwing me but also wanted to screw the rest of us out of our parents’ house. So Enzo said if he kept on like that he’d take out his pistol and shoot him. He said “I’ll shoot you” so convincingly that your father turned white with fear, he shut up and left. But now, Giannì—here my aunt blew her nose, dried her wet eyes, began to twist her mouth to contain passion and fury—you must listen well to what your father did: he went straight to Enzo’s wife and in front of the three children said: Margherì, your husband is fucking my sister. He did that, he took that responsibility on himself, and he made a mess of my life, Enzo’s, Margherita’s, and the life of those three poor little kids.
Now the sun had reached the flower bed and the flowers shone in the vases much brighter than the lamp in the shape of a flame: the light of day made the colors so vivid that the light of the dead seemed useless, appeared spent. I felt sad, sad for Vittoria, for Enzo, for his wife, Margherita, for the three small children. Was it possible that my father had behaved like that? I couldn’t believe it, he had always said: the worst thing, Giovanna, is to be a snitch. And yet, according to Vittoria, he had done that, and even though he must have had good reasons—I was sure—it wasn’t like him, no, I ruled it out. But I didn’t dare say so to Vittoria, it seemed offensive to claim that, on the seventeenth anniversary of their love, she was telling lies in front of Enzo’s tomb. So I said nothing, though I was unhappy that once again I wasn’t defending my father, and I looked at her uncertainly, while she, as if to soothe herself, cleaned with a tear-stained handkerchief the glass ovals that protected the photos. The silence weighed on me, and I asked her:
“How did Enzo die?”
“Of a terrible illness.”
“When?”
“A few months after things ended between us.”
“He died of grief?”
“Yes, of grief. Your father made him get sick, your father who was the cause of our separation. He killed him.”
I said:
“And then why didn’t you get sick and die? Didn’t you feel the pain?”
She stared me straight in the eyes, so that I immediately lowered my gaze.
“I suffered, Giannì, I’m still suffering. But suffering didn’t kill me, first so that I would go on always thinking of Enzo; second, out of love for his children and also Margherita, because I am a good woman and I felt a duty to help her bring up those three kids, for whom I worked and work as a maid in the houses of the wealthy of half of Naples, from morning to night; third, out of hate, hate for your father, hate that makes you go on even when you don’t want to live any longer.”
I pressed her:
“How was it that Margherita wasn’t angry when you took her husband, but rather let you help her, you who’d stolen him from her?”
She lighted a cigarette, inhaled deeply. While my father and mother didn’t blink in the face of my questions, but evaded them when they were embarrassed and sometimes consulted with each other before answering, Vittoria got irritated, cursed, displayed her impatience openly, but answered, explicitly, as no adult had ever done with me. You see I’m right, she said, you’re intelligent, an intelligent little slut like me, but also a bitch, you act like a saint but you like turning the knife in the wound. Steal her husband, exactly, you’re right, that’s what I did. Enzo I stole, I took him away from Margherita and the children, and I would have died rather than give him back. That, she exclaimed, is a terrible thing, but if love is very strong, sometimes you have to do it. You don’t choose, you realize that without the ugly things the good ones don’t exist, and you act that way because you can’t help it. As for Margherita, yes, she was angry, she took her husband back, screaming and hitting, but later when she realized that Enzo was sick, sick with an illness that had erupted inside in a few weeks of rage, she became depressed, she said to him go, go back to Vittoria, I’m sorry, if I’d known you’d get sick I would have sent you back to her before. But now it was too late, and so we went through his illness together, she and I, up to the last minute. What a person Margherita is, a wonderful woman, sensible, I’d like you to meet her. As soon as she understood how much I loved her husband, and how much I was suffering, she said: all right, we loved the same man, and I understand you, how could one not love Enzo. So enough, I had these children with Enzo, if you want to love them, too, I have nothing against it. Understand? Do you understand the generosity? Your father, your mother, their friends, all those important people, do they have this greatness, do they have this generosity?
I didn’t know what to say, I murmured only:
“I’ve ruined your anniversary, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you to tell the story.”
“You haven’t ruined anything, in fact you’ve made me happy. I’ve talked about Enzo, and whenever I talk about him I don’t remember only the grief, but also how happy we were.”
“That’s what I want to know more about.”
“The happiness?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes became more inflamed.
“You know what happens between men and women?”
“Yes.”
“You say yes but you know nothing. They fuck. You know that word?”
I was startled.
“Yes.”
“Enzo and I did that thing eleven times altogether. Then he went back to his wife and I never did it again with anyone. Enzo kissed me and touched me and licked me all over, and I touched him and kissed him all the way to his toes and caressed him and licked and sucked. Then he put his dick inside me and held my ass with both hands, one here and one there, and he thrust it into me with such force that it made me cry out. If you, in all your life, don’t do this thing as I did it, with the passion I did it with, the love I did it with, and I don’t mean eleven times but at least once, it’s pointless to live. Tell your father: Vittoria said that if I don’t fuck the way she fucked with Enzo, it’s pointless for me to live. You have to say it just like that. He thinks he deprived me of something, with what he did to me. But he didn’t deprive me of anything, I’ve had everything, I have everything. It’s your father who has nothing.”
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