Angelica put on her jacket and asked Viola for a ride because she didn’t have her car, Oreste had taken it. On the stairs, Viola said she didn’t want to give Angelica a ride. She wasn’t feeling well. She felt tired. Angelica said she’d take a taxi but then, as she was getting into the taxi, Viola changed her mind and said she’d take them after all. The driver cursed at them.
When they were in the car, Viola started talking about the tower again. They could put a lookout on the top, and she could take the baby up there. The air density would be so marvelous up there. “Why would the air density be so much more marvelous up there,” said Angelica. “It gets hot on the Isola del Giglio. The sun will be beating down on you, on the lookout, and the baby will roast alive.” “We’ll put up a canopy,” said Viola. “And we can put down paving stones in all the rooms to keep it cool. They are easier to wash than ceramic and less fragile.” Angelica said that she thought she remembered their father had already selected and purchased a vast quantity of ceramic tiles. Anyway, the tower belonged to Michele. “Michele will never go there,” said Viola. “He’ll never get married. Michele will never have a family of his own. He’s gay.” “You wish he was,” said Angelica. “He’s a homosexual,” said Viola. “Haven’t you figured out that he and Osvaldo were lovers?” “You wish,” said Angelica. While she was saying, “you wish,” she realized that it was exactly what she’d always thought. “Michele had a girlfriend, and he’s probably the father of her baby,” she said. “Because he’s bisexual,” said Viola. “Osvaldo has a daughter,” said Angelica. “Is he bisexual too?” “Bisexual,” said Viola.
“Poor Michele,” said Viola. “It hurts my heart to think of Michele.” “I don’t feel sorry for Michele at all,” said Angelica. “It makes me happy to think of him.” But, really, she felt like her heart was being squeezed and she felt generally undone. “Michele is in Leeds with a girl now,” she said. “I know,” said Viola. “He’s never happy. He goes from one place to another. He tries one thing then another. Our father destroyed him. He spoiled him. He took him away from us and from our mother. He neglected Michele. He doted on him and neglected him. He always left him alone in the house with that old cook. And that’s why Michele turned homosexual. Out of loneliness. He missed his mother and sisters and that turns you homosexual — when you think of women as something absent but desired. My therapist told me that. You know I have a therapist.” “I know,” said Angelica. “I was having trouble sleeping,” said Viola. “I was anxious. I sleep much better now that I see a therapist.” “Either way, Michele is not homosexual,” said Angelica. “And he’s not bisexual. He’s straight. And even if he is bisexual I don’t see why that means we should take his tower away from him.”
Viola said she’d go with them into the hospital for a while. They found Osvaldo, Sonia, and Ada waiting outside the emergency room. Osvaldo had asked Ada to come because she had a doctor friend who worked at the hospital. Sonia was carrying Ray’s windbreaker over her arm. She’d been next to him when they’d thrown him to the ground. She saw the people who did it. They were Fascists. They had chains. Ada saw her doctor friend pass by and ran after him. The doctor reassured them that Ray hadn’t been hurt badly and he could go home.
Viola and Ada went to get something to eat. Ada ordered a coffee and Viola a hot toddy. Viola said she was going to leave because her knees were trembling. Hospitals scared her and this was all upsetting. She’d seen a nurse carrying a bucket of bloody gauze walk past. She was worried she’d have a miscarriage. Ada asked how far along she was. A month, answered Viola. Ada said that when she was seven months pregnant she spent many nights on end in the hospital looking after one of her maids who had peritonitis.
Ray came out of the emergency room with a bandaged head. Viola and Ada left. Sonia and Angelica helped Ray into Osvaldo’s Fiat. They drove to Osvaldo’s house. Ray lay down on the couch in the parlor. It was a big parlor with couches and armchairs. All the upholstery was worn and frayed. Osvaldo brought in a bottle of Lambrusco. Angelica drank a glass of Lambrusco and curled up on a chair, resting her head on the arm. She watched Osvaldo and Sonia come and go to the kitchen. She looked at Osvaldo’s broad back in his camel-colored sweater, his big square head and thin blond hair. She felt happy to be there with Osvaldo, Sonia, and Ray, and happy that Viola and Ada had left. She felt that life was sweet. She thought maybe Viola was right about Osvaldo. Maybe he was Michele’s lover, but it was hard to imagine and it didn’t matter anyway. Ray had fallen asleep with a plaid blanket pulled up over his head. Osvaldo brought in a big pot and set it on the glass coffee table by the couch. Sonia carried bowls. Ray woke and they ate spaghetti with olive oil, garlic, and hot pepper. They spent the afternoon smoking, listening to records, drinking Lambrusco, and making occasional comments. When it got dark, Ray went back down to the studio and Sonia followed him.
Angelica had to go home and Osvaldo took her. He didn’t feel like being alone yet, he said — they had spent such a wonderful afternoon, the four of them, doing nothing.
At home, Angelica stood at the window, waiting for her daughter to be dropped off. Osvaldo found a book on the typewriter and started reading. The title was Ten Days That Shook the World. Angelica saw her daughter climbing out of the car. She waved at the friends who had hosted her. Her daughter was happy and tired. They had gone to Anzio and she played outside in the pine forest. She’d already eaten at a restaurant. Angelica watched her undress and helped her button up her pajamas. She turned off the light and kissed the blonde hair spilling out over the covers. She went to the kitchen, got a knife and newspaper, and scraped the mud off the child’s shoes. She found some peas to reheat and dressed them with chopped leftover ham. Oreste would be home late. She sat in a chair near Osvaldo, pulled off her boots, and looked at the hole in her stocking, which had gotten bigger. Osvaldo was still reading. She rested her head on the arm of the chair and fell asleep. She dreamed of the word bisexual. In the dream, the word and bits of ceramic tiles were scattered in a pine forest. The telephone rang and woke her up. It was Elio. He begged her to come if she could. Viola was bleeding. She was in tears and wanted someone. Elio said that Angelica had been reckless to drag her to the hospital. She’d gotten worked up and was having a miscarriage. Maybe it wasn’t a miscarriage said Angelica, maybe she was just menstruating. It’s probably a miscarriage Elio said and Viola is devastated because she wanted the baby so very badly. Angelica buckled her boots back up and asked Osvaldo to stay until Oreste got back. She left the house and went to Viola.
17
February 15, 1971 — Leeds
Dear Angelica,
I’m writing with some news that might shock you. I’m getting married. Can you please go to the office in Piazza San Silvestro to get the documents I need. I don’t know which ones they want. I’m going to get married as soon as I have the papers.
I’m marrying a girl I met in Leeds. She’s not actually a girl, because she’s divorced and has two children. She’s American. She teaches nuclear physics. The children are sweet. I love children. Not when they’re very little, but once they get to be six or seven like these ones. We are having so much fun. I won’t tell you all about this girl I’m marrying. She’s thirty. She’s not beautiful. She wears glasses. She’s very intelligent. I love intelligence.
It looks like I’ll be able to find work. They are looking for an Italian teacher in a private school for girls here in Leeds. I’ve been washing dishes up until now in another private school for girls, where Josephine, who I came here with, is a teacher. You can still write me in care of Josephine’s mother. I don’t have an apartment yet but I’m looking. Eileen, the girl I’m marrying, lives with her parents and children in a small house. There’s no room for me. For now I’m staying in a boardinghouse but I won’t give you the address because I’m moving.
I might write Mamma too, but in the meantime, will you start breaking the news to her? Tell her gradually because this is the
sort of thing that might upset her. Tell her not to be upset because I’ve thought it through. Maybe we’ll come to Italy for the Easter vacation and that way you can meet Eileen and the children.
I’m sending you a hug. Get me that paperwork quickly.
Michele
18
February 15, 1971
Dear Mara,
I’m writing to let you know that I’m getting married. The woman I’m marrying is extraordinary. She’s the most intelligent woman I’ve ever met.
Write me. Your letters make me laugh. I read them to Eileen. Eileen, my wife. I mean, she will be my wife in twenty days, I just need to sort out the paperwork. We laughed like crazy about you and the pelican.
I’m sending you a pack of twelve terry onesies for the baby. Eileen wanted you to have them. They belonged to her children and she kept them. She says they are extremely handy. They are machine washable. Although, you might not have a washing machine.
Can you store them when you’re done too? I might need them back in case me and Eileen have children. Eileen told me to tell you that you shouldn’t throw them away.
Congratulations on your pelican.
Michele
19
February 15, 1971
Dear Osvaldo,
I’m sorry for not having written since I left. The conversation we had when you called to tell me my father had died was brief. And then we talked the time my mother was at your house. I know that I should have written and told you all about myself, given you all the news.
I hear that you see a lot of my loved ones, you spend evenings with my mother and see my sisters. This makes me very happy.
I have news that will surprise you. I’ve decided to get married. I’m marrying a girl named Eileen Robson. She’s divorced. She has two children. She’s not pretty. She’s almost ugly from certain angles. She’s very thin and has freckles everywhere. She wears giant glasses, like Ada. But she’s not as good looking as Ada. Maybe she’s what you’d call a type.
She is very intelligent. Her intelligence fascinates me and I find it reassuring. This might be because I’m not very intelligent, but I’m sharp and practical. So I know what intelligence is and I know that I don’t have it. I wrote “sharp and practical” because that’s how you once described me.
I could never live with a stupid woman. I may not be very intelligent, but I love and admire intelligence.
In my studio, in the bottom drawer of the bureau I think, there’s a scarf. It’s a beautiful scarf, white with light-blue stripes and it’s real cashmere. It was a present from my father. It would make me happy if you were to get it and wear it. I would be happy to know that you were wearing that scarf when you walk along the Lungotevere, coming home from the store. I haven’t forgotten our long walks along the Lungotevere, back and forth, under the setting sun.
Michele
20
February 22, 1971
Dear Michele,
The cashmere scarf cannot be found. But I bought a scarf for myself. I don’t think it’s cashmere and it doesn’t have blue stripes, it’s just white. I wear it and imagine it’s yours. I am aware that it’s a surrogate. But for what it’s worth, we all live with surrogates.
I go see your mother often, she is very nice, and I also see, as you’ve heard, your friends.
As for everything else. My life is the same. Still the same. I go to the shop, I listen to Signora Peroni complain about her varicose veins and arthritis, I go through the register receipts, I talk to the few customers who come in, I take Elisabetta to gymnastics and go pick her up, I walk along the Lungotevere, I put my hands in my pockets and lean against the railing of the bridge and I watch the sun set.
I send huge congratulations on your wedding and I sent you a gift of a special, red leather-bound edition of Fleurs du mal.
Osvaldo
21
February 23, 1971
Dear Michele,
Angelica is over and she tells me you’re getting married. She says that you told her to break the news to me gradually so that I wouldn’t be upset. But she told me everything the minute she arrived. Angelica knows me better than you do. She knows I’m always upset, so that nothing new upsets me anymore. It might seem strange to you but I’m not surprised either. I’m neither shocked nor surprised by anything anymore because I’m in a perpetual state of shock and surprise.
I’ve been sick in bed for the last ten days. That’s why I haven’t written you. I called Doctor Bovo, who looked after your father, he lives on San Sebastianello on the fourth floor. I have pleurisy. It feels quite odd to write, “I have pleurisy,” because I’ve never had anything in my life and I’ve always considered myself robust. Getting sick is something that happens to other people.
Angelica let me read your letter. There are certain sentences that puzzle me, despite the fact that I am, as I said, at this point essentially immune to shock. “I love intelligence.” “I love children.” To be perfectly honest, I didn’t have the slightest idea that you loved intelligence and children. Such claims, however, leave a positive impression. It is as if you were finally seeking clarity and resolution. As if you were finally trying to make real choices.
I will be so excited to see you at Easter, to meet your wife and these children of hers. The prospect of having children in the house makes me tired just thinking about it. But since I’ll be seeing you again, I welcome it all with great pleasure.
I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad thing that you’re marrying a woman who is thirty years old. Apparently you need to have an older woman around you. You need maternal affection. This is because when you were little, your father took you away from me, God forgive him, if God exists, which is a possibility I won’t exclude. I sometimes think about how little time we’ve spent together, you and me, and how little we know each other. I think about how superficially we pass judgment on each other. I think you’re a moron. But I don’t know if you’re a moron. Maybe you’re secretly wise.
It seems that they’re finally going to install a telephone line here, thanks to Ada, who went in person to the telephone company the moment she heard I was sick.
I forgot to tell you something important. Osvaldo says that Ada would be delighted to buy your tower. That would be positive, because it would free you of the burden, even though, let’s be honest, you’re not in the least worried about the tower. Viola and Elio had wanted to buy it from you but then they went to see it and were disappointed. They say it’s problematic to get to, the path there is steep. The tower itself looks like it would crumble if you touched it. That architect hasn’t done any of the work yet. All they did was to bring a couple of contractors out there and they took out a sink and knocked down a wall. Now the sink is in the yard, dumped in the middle of a nettle patch. Your father chose new tiles and he paid for them, but they are still in the warehouse and the warehouse wants them out. Ada says the architect is a total idiot. She went with her own architect to see the tower for herself. She wants to put in a pool, install stairs down to the ocean, put in a road. We discovered that your father paid ten million lire for that tower, not one million which is what he claimed. Ada would give you fifteen for it. You should make a decision.
I think you’ll need shirts and socks, and maybe a dark jacket. I can’t possibly take care of that for you as I am sick, and Angelica doesn’t have time. Viola is rather down, depressed, I think she had a minor nervous breakdown. We’re all in a bad way. Matilde has completely lost her mind over Polenta and Poison. She goes to see Colarosa, the editor, every day to read proofs or look at the cover, or just to break his spirit. Your friend, Mara Martorelli, is working there now. Matilde saw her. She says that she was wearing a wild Japanese kimono covered with giant flowers.
I’m ending this letter here because Angelica is waiting for me so she can mail it.
I’m sending you hugs and wish you happine
ss, if there is such a thing as happiness. A possibility that we can’t entirely exclude, despite so rarely seeing evidence of it in this world that’s been given to us.
Your mother
22
February 29, 1971
Dear Michele,
I received the twelve onesies. You shouldn’t have bothered sending them as they are very worn out, the snaps are torn, and the fabric is stiff and scratchy like salt cod. Tell your Eileen, or whatever her name is, that I’m not a pauper. Tell her that my baby’s onesies are new and soft. They are made of beautiful pink and blue flowered material. Nevertheless, thank you anyway.
Happiness, as Such Page 8