With half-open eye fleeing the greyish strip of the sea and the little low wall a conscious thought returns: there is nothing else to look at: nothing at all: life lies in these umbrellas and in the murmur, in the water coming down and stirring the water. The sewers have been crammed and full for a good long time, and these rivulets which descend from Via Aniello Falcone and from Via Tasso to Corso Vittorio Emanuele are swelling hour by hour, and more water, in huge quantities, is coming down from Via Salvator Rosa and rushing downhill, Piazza Mazzini, and down to the Museum, and to Via Roma, and the water from Via Roma meets the water coming down from the Quartieri and from Corso Vittorio Emanuele, and the circle closes, a heavy and ineluctable circle, and that water meets in a circle and surges towards the sea, which in turn surges towards the water of Mergellina, of Via Caracciolo, of Via Partenope, of Santa Lucia, of Via Marittima, of San Giovanni a Teduccio. It would start to feel like a siege, if we didn’t all know that in the end it isn’t the first time it has rained like this. No, Naples has endured other rains, rains that were still more violent, yes sir. Which lasted longer. It pays its kickback, the city does, and it survives. Now there is nothing more than a sad awareness: from Via Foria the slow procession begins to quiver, and then to move. There are black cars, vans, umbrellas and these black clothes.
The father of Rosaria De Filippis is there, the first one behind that coach and eight. He would have liked the others to see her too, that day, his little girl dressed in white and with flowers in her hand, between the fingers now clamped shut. He would have liked everyone to notice the black horses from a distance, and the black coachman, and the black gravediggers, and that black coach. And inside that black the white flower of his Rosaria laid to rest with her face calm and smiling, because her father was following her. Instead they had said no, that the coffin couldn’t stay open on the journey, even though he clearly remembered, he had spent the whole night in that room, and he had patiently waited for Rosaria’s mother and the other ladies to take off that pair of ripped jeans and the purple sweater, and dress her, too, in that beautiful, beautiful bright white figure-hugging evening dress. And she was very elegant, his little girl, the most elegant of all. He had also told his wife, after the girl had been dressed, please put a bit of make-up on her, just just just a little bit. A seventeen-year-old girl has the right to her tender femininity, to her pretty ways, to the admiration of those who gaze upon her. Now following that coach and eight, Luigi De Filippis from time to time brought his left hand to the outside pocket of his jacket and with his fingertips gently touched and touched again to be sure: in his pocket he had kept Rosaria’s glasses. Only the frame in fact which had been recovered, and through the fabric he could now discern the marks of the metal. And when they said no, that the coffin must not be open, a red violence had darted through his arms and his brain, he thought I’m going to punch them right in the face, and his muscles had tensed, his eyes narrowed with hatred, the fingers of his right hand clenched into a fist, and then, all of a sudden, the strength had gone, and the rebelliousness, and the violence, and what remained was that tender feeling, and the half-smile, and consciousness, and a relaxed expression that he couldn’t see, and Rosaria’s nose that shaped her delicate profile. All night he had stayed and watched: and how beautiful you are, how beautiful you are, he had gone on saying to her all that night, sitting calmly and peacefully in a chair beside the bed. Every now and again he adjusted the folds of her dress. He had never touched her face, not that, because you never touch a woman on the face, because of the make-up and the hair and the eyeliner. And all that night he had sat peacefully in the silence of his devastated house, and had said nothing but every now and then how beautiful you are, how beautiful you are, and he had really said it under his breath, in a frail hint of a voice, confiding a secret. Because he was jealous at that moment, yes, jealous, and those were facts that other people must not hear, no one must hear them, those were matters between him and his little girl, his Rosaria, and all night he had stayed on that white chair, and only at the first light of dawn – 25 October, the third day of rain – had he got up, and felt his weak knees, and his weak legs, and shaken his head for a moment, for just a moment, and then he had crossed the house, his poor devastated house, with people and flowers and some unrecognisable things, and he had gone out to stand on the balcony. He had looked up into the sky at the falling rain. He had also thought: when we leave the house the sun will be shining. Of course, the sun will be there for my Rosaria, and we will go with her with the sun and so much light around, and everyone will see her, and it will be clear that she is the most beautiful of all, my poor little girl. Now that he was following the coach in front of his nose sighed deeply with sadness, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, he said to himself, because he knew very well that his little girl was the most beautiful of all, and perhaps there was really no need for the others to see her. He had felt on his right arm his wife’s arm, and he had shaken off her weight, and clumsily, and he didn’t want anyone’s hands on him, and he didn’t want anyone in front of him or beside him at that moment, because in any case nothing else mattered, what mattered was the two of them, he and his little girl, and there was no need for anything, really anything, his little girl would have imagined him coming with her. Just as he had thought of adjusting her dress when the moment had come that morning, when they had said to him you need to close it, really, you need to close it up now, and he had asked what do you mean?, close it up?, how do you close up a seventeen-year-old girl? And who will tell her about this blossoming sky and that sun that might return?, who will woo her and who will send her flowers if you close her up now? And what will that girl’s life be like if now this hateful, heavy wood descends on the paleness of her face, on the tenderness of her features? After that clumsy gesture, Luigi De Filippis’s wife had understood, and had fallen back a little and off to the side, because the relationship between a father and a daughter is slightly different, and men can be so strange, because they might keep things inside for years and years, and don’t show anything, and then guess what. She had stepped to the left and fallen back a little and linked arms with their son, and had seen: between father and son not even a word, no, not even a word. And now the most total void had grown around Rosaria, and he alone had stayed calm, he alone, and he had wanted no one, and there had been that separation, yes, it had happened, there was no point in hiding it. He had stayed with Rosaria, and she with their son whose arm she had taken and gripped and in the course of the night she had often come to stroke without a word.
And there was that big crowd which when you were in it seemed like the whole city united all because of those seven deaths. But if you looked carefully you could see those divisions, of course, those divisions: in fact everyone had their own dead, and as regards the onlookers, well, they were broadly inclined towards the family of Aniello Savastano, not least, obviously enough, because of the three little children. Because there is always a big difference between the death of an adult and the death of a little child. The little children are redeemed, so to speak. So, near the hearses that accompanied Aniello Savastano, Aniello Savastano’s wife and their three children, there were more people than there were near the coach of Rosaria De Filippis, or the hearse of Wanda Zampino, who was the old lady who had also died in the chasm. And there was that swarm of people in Via Foria, and the rumour circulated that the Higher Urban Authorities were going to come, and a speech would be delivered, but in fact now no need was felt for such a thing, for such a speech, not least because a speech had already been delivered by His Eminence the Cardinal. When a cardinal has spoken of death, what remains to be said? Perhaps something remained, something about the living, or about responsibilities, or about yet other matters, but who feels like breaking the decorum of death? Grief needs silence and rationality, and respect for the feelings of others, and it can’t be done, so it can’t be done. Faced with the sorrowful event, there are no objections, not a single objection.
And precisely by virtue of that fact, Giovannella Speranza had told them at home. Look I’m going to be late today, because the whole school is going to Rosaria De Filippis’s funeral, and it won’t be that much fun but we have to go. Her mother had looked at her and seen that her daughter’s eyes were evasive, but what do you do in such difficult situations?, reply, and then Giovannella had run out in a blue skirt, her white blouse, a blue jumper and her coat on top, and soon she had reached the street, and she had turned the corner, and disappeared, she had disappeared irrevocably. On the corner behind her street she had found him closed up and closed away in the Fiat 500, and the Fiat 500, from Via Lepanto, had reached Piazzale Tecchio and then on to Via Domitiana all the way to Damiani and beyond and when there’s that sign that says Cuma to the left via that little-frequented road. At last they arrived: it was 10.15 on 25 October, the third day of rain. They got out of the Fiat 500 together with a tender kiss on the lips, and he walked ahead and showed the way, even though she knew it well, and in through the entrance immediately on the left, in that dark doorway, and then the key that is difficult to turn and then turns. They went inside, and he looked around, slightly worried, because he shared the place with someone else and wouldn’t have wanted to find inconsiderate traces or anything out of place. But in the end it all went well, all well. Then he smiled and pulled the door closed behind him, while she had taken a tour, as you might say, and poked her head into the bathroom and the kitchen, after all you know what women are like, and there was a strong smell of stuffiness and also of damp, beside the bed two empty bottles, cigarette butts, and Giovannella immediately went to check, were the cigarettes hers from last time, nothing to take exception to. He watched her movements and said are we carrying out an inspection, is that it? Of course, Giovannella replied, and he smiled with that tender face of his, so tender, and he threw his arms around her neck and a deep kiss he gave her, rubbing himself against her and going MMMMM and suddenly he switched position and his hands slipped along Giovannella’s hips. He felt her soft flesh under his hands, so soft, and immediately he felt a growing presence in his trousers. And also she was rubbing herself of course, and thrusting those hips forward and that tender outrageous belly, then let’s put on a bit of music she said pulling suddenly away, and he was left standing in the middle of the room watching her while those little hands of hers explored and explored the radio, and found music in the end, and languidly brighter turned towards him, fumbling with her bra as he sat on the edge of the bed and leaning slightly to the side slipped his hands down below. Down below she was hot tenderly hot. In the end there was a great fuss as they tried to liberate themselves from all those clothes, and he was responsible for most of the fuss, because women are much calmer and more practical. At any rate, in the end they were naked on the bed and in a close embrace, and he kissed her, and she opened that mouth of hers a little too wide as happens sometimes when you sigh slightly, but their breath rose panting in their chests and the muscles in their arms and in their legs were now inclined to draw together. He stroked her breasts and between her legs, and she didn’t stroke anything, apart from his hair, and she brought one hand down and that hand remained quite still because she had to play the part of the girl, the part of the woman. And even in fact when he climbed on top of her, Giovannella kept her legs tenderly closed tightly and they opened only when he opened them, and she went on lying underneath him. And in the end they met and, there, there, the strange sensation, strange sweetest thing in his possession coming inside and her face growing serious, and her lips parting and her eyes going blank, now, now, at that very moment that she is feeling, yes, and that movement of the loins, and the blood running now, and that strange force, and instinctively her hips move, slightly, with a brief and imperceptible movement, and he thinks for a moment and stops where he is and thinks and sees his face hidden in hers, and he is aware of their breathing and the force of those tensed muscles, and he clutches her, he clutches her so violently it hurts. And it’s over, now, it’s all over. Slowly, that cloudlet darkens in the distance. He stays on top of her, for a while, he kisses her tenderly on the lips. Giovannella feels from underneath that she would like to move and tremble slightly, but she can’t with that cumbersome weight on top of her, and lie there she does until he comes out and doesn’t turn over, and breathes deeply, of course, and smiles, and jumps up to look for a cigarette in his trousers. Giovannella says for me too. And those two cigarettes are lit. There is the sound of the rain falling, outside, methodical neurasthenic rain falling. She pulls the covers over herself and they lie there: he smoking, she thinking of her mother’s eyes. She has worked it out, of course, she has worked out very clearly that she wasn’t going to a funeral. Perhaps a woman who’s a daughter can’t lie to a woman who’s a mother. But in the end it’s better that she, her mother, realises, because in any case it was the same for her, and nothing to make a song and dance about, no. They all know very well that at a certain age girls open their legs and make love. She did the same, when the time came. So why does she go on at her like that, why? He lies there smoking with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Giovannella gives him a kick. He lifts himself up on his elbow towards her breasts and rests his lips tenderly on them and for a while they joke and talk about themselves and other people and there’s always lots to talk about. When he approaches again and rubs against her thigh, Giovannella becomes aware of that hard presence, and now it starts again, she says to herself, and indeed it does start again, and this time better, much better. When the movement comes Giovannella stretches into her loins and grips grips with her legs in an arc holding on, and that river that comes oh that river and the world opening up and the earth opening up, now, and she receives, yes, she receives it all, the furrow comes down, down into the depths, oh yes, and that river that is a whole sea now, a wide enormous boundless sea, and there is this open air, and this pace and her heart swells, and those arms leaving me, and those legs leaving me and those hands that have abandoned me oh yes abandoned oh yes abandoned. Then slowly conscious thought returns, she says, damn! She grips him, she plants a kiss on him, and then she looks at the clock. Of course, the clock: there’s not much to joke about, at home. Seven days before, then she was late, her father gave her two slaps that she can still feel on her face. Giovannella Speranza decides that it really isn’t a good idea to make the situation worse, and that there are ways and ways of doing things. A woman if she is a woman always finds the right way. And she doesn’t need to look her in the eyes, her mother doesn’t, with that falsely apprehensive expression as if she could understand who knows what. There, you see, mamma?, here I am completely naked in bed and nothing is happening, really nothing at all. If I think about the way you used to fuss in the old days, the way you want to fuss again, it just makes me laugh thinking about it. And the worries that I carried with me, and the gossip of my friends, and those dark questions, and that thing that weighed so heavily. And too bad that I’ve sorted it out, too bad, if it had been up to you I would have had to drag it around with me for another ten years, wouldn’t I?, just ten, and then maybe all those other things about marriage and life. My dears, the more time passes, the more I realise, with the best will in the world, that there’s very little in all the things you say, yes, very little, because when I move in my own way I see everything differently, and things are never the same as you told me they were, and as you would like to go on telling me they are, never the same, never, not even once. Then really you would wonder if you weren’t in another world. Maybe you haven’t noticed and in the meantime the world has shifted, it’s moved a little further on, and you haven’t noticed, you’re still twisting your things thingies thingummies around in your hands and in the meantime everything has changed, of course, everything, and what has not changed is about to change, without a doubt. If I think again of that thing that I carried around with me, if I think about it. But anyway, now, let’s see if we can start moving because it’s getting late. Outside in the street it was rainin
g harder now. That strip of grey in the sky, everything seemed heavier. Giovannella Speranza, there, now, became aware of her separation from him: he was certainly steering off somewhere else. He had set off on a different route, somewhere far away.
Just so, at that moment, did Rosaria De Filippis, Wanda Zampino and Aniello Savastano with his family turn into a different road, very far away, and the crowd dispersed into a hundred tiny trickles, and in the end only the groups of family and relatives had remained, in the cemetery of Poggioreale. Each group had seen the other making for a different destination, and the solidarity of death had shattered silently now because of those partings, and in the end each one of them was left with their own dead, and perhaps because of that dispersal they felt diminished, as if life had stolen something from them. Certainly, compared with two hours previously, the atmosphere was completely different, and that participation, and the multitude of voices, and the quiet murmur had made them forget even the falling rain, everything had been set aside, two hours before: the little torrents of water along the sides of the road, the overflowing sewers gurgling water, and those streams of water that were on the way, and the silence that had been there as a clue. While now that presence of rain drew on the alleyways of Poggioreale, and the water came down the hill, and everyone was sure that it had nothing to do with them, nothing at all. The water came down came down fled into the distance, and somewhere it would stop too, in all likelihood, but that didn’t concern any of them, no: it only concerned those who were in the place where the water stopped: but, in the end: would it ever really stop, that water that kept coming and coming? And even if it did, what would ever happen? There was only that grey presence to disrupt their thoughts, to confuse their eyes.
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