Arturo's Island

by Elsa Morante

  When her friends picked up the baby to feel his weight and fondle him, a shadow of apprehension immediately veiled her gaze, in the suspicion that they would hurt him. But, still, seeing him there, raised in triumph like a hero, she laughed with joyous yet uncertain pleasure, as if wondering: “Is he really MINE? Is he actually MINE?”

  When she nursed him, she took care to cover her breast with the shawl; and if at that moment she happened to see my eyes resting on her, she blushed and covered herself better. (It was no longer now as it had once been, that she felt no embarrassment toward me. Whereas I, now, felt that, even if she weren’t embarrassed, I wouldn’t be offended.) At intervals during the day I came back to see her, in the new room, and I sat down on the linen chest, and lingered. I think that on that day I would have been happy also to be her servant, if she had had need of it; but there was always at least one of her friends, often several, and I sat apart, sullenly, without speaking. Now that they were used to my presence, her friends weren’t intimidated by me and chatted constantly; and it was annoying to listen to their nonsense. As for Carmine Arturo, he seemed so ugly, with that surly face that didn’t even know how to laugh, that, in my opinion, he was worth less than nothing.

  Yet even with so many people around she never forgot me. Sometimes, amid the conversations of those women, she turned to me alone, sitting silently apart, and, paying no attention to them, said, with a kind of timid intimacy: “Right, Artú . . . ?” Maybe she meant to ask forgiveness for the fright she had given me the night before! She said nothing but this: “Right, Artú . . . ?” Her voice, even now that she was the mother of an infant, had kept the known, slightly harsh, almost toneless flavor of a girl who hasn’t yet grown up. And hearing that familiar small voice that said “Artú” when, a few hours earlier, I had believed she was dead, I felt a happiness so violent, and turbulent, that I became even darker in the face. It was my character. I wouldn’t have minded saying to her at least these two words: “I’M HAPPY!” Often, during the day, I promised myself I would come into the room and tell her, without hesitation, “I’m happy,” even in an indifferent tone. But in the end I had no wish to say even a two-word phrase like that.

  The sight of Nunz alive, restored to health and spirits, smiling at me from amid her curls, at me alone, seemed suddenly a miraculous display, as if the island were populated by gods. And, not knowing how to give expression to the capricious joy that invaded my heart, after a while I left that too-enchanting room. Until today, happiness had been a natural companion of my blood, which might not even be noticed, like a carnal sister. But today at certain moments I felt this new thing: the unexpected, almost unhoped-for presence of happiness, which burned my mind; and I felt I was embracing it, and I didn’t know how to distract myself with any other thought. Insolently, my joy invaded the light, the space, every corner of the house, even the dustiest storeroom. I decided to go out, to do something; I thought for example of going hunting and I started looking for a gun, which belonged to our servant Costante. I found it and, for fun, although it was unloaded, pretended to take aim against some object in the house, a chair, a shoe. Then, bored by the idea of looking for cartridges, I left the gun and went out, weightless and free. I wandered through the countryside, and climbed the first tree I saw that looked majestic; and from the height of the crown I began singing at the top of my lungs, as if the island were a pirate ship and I, at the top of the mainmast, its captain. I wouldn’t have been able to say precisely what, on that day, I could expect from the future; only it seemed that, since Nunz was still living on the earth, tomorrow and every other day to come would be in itself a joyous surprise, and would bring me some mysteries of happiness. I felt grateful, but didn’t know to whom, I didn’t know whom to thank. And after brief moments of repose I was unsettled and restless again. I even had thoughts of a gallant knight: it occurred to me to bring Nunz some gift that would please her and give her a sweet sign on my part. One thing she loved, of course, was jewelry; but I had long since spent the last fifty lire my father had given me. Now, as I walked unoccupied along the beach, I noticed a sea urchin of a beautiful purple color, attached to a rock near the shore, almost on the surface of the calm, transparent water. And, remembering how much she liked sea urchins, I decided to bring it to her. I quickly took off my shoes, and went to detach it from the rock, with the help of my pocketknife. Then I wrapped it in a piece of newspaper I found on the beach, and hurried home, eager for her to have my gift.

  But, on the point of entering the room, I felt a sudden sense of embarrassment, maybe also of mystery, and I hastily hid the little package under my shirt. For more than a quarter of an hour I stayed there, sitting, as usual, on the old linen chest, without saying a word, amid all the chatter of her friends. I felt the spines of the sea urchin lightly pricking my chest, through the wrapping of newspaper; and that sea urchin bothered me, but on the other hand I couldn’t find either the moment or the method of offering it. (Note: It wasn’t that I considered it a gift too modest, or ridiculous because of its worthlessness! No, at that time I had strange ideas about the value of things, which didn’t correspond to reality. And I had the conviction that that sea urchin was a splendid gift; but it was really the thought itself of offering her a gift that intimidated me: and, even more, in the presence of all those women.)

  I recall that at least three or four times later in the afternoon I returned to the famous room or ventured as far as the doorway, or stood outside in the hall, indecisive, always with the intention of finally offering my gift: maybe rushing in, delivering it to her hands without a word of explanation, and running away. But every time I lacked the will to resolve on that step, until, when evening came, and I went to my room to sleep, I found the sea urchin there, wrapped in its piece of newspaper, and in vexation threw it out the window.

  A Surprise

  That night, I recall, one of the friends stayed overnight at our house, murmuring with the others that the poor girl couldn’t be left alone, the day after she had given birth, with no one, not even her husband, nearby . . . And then the next day we had an unexpected visit. If I think back to that visit, it still makes me laugh, irresistibly.

  Let’s begin with the reconstruction of the facts. A few days earlier, one of N.’s Procidan acquaintances had had to go to Naples for a day; and N., taking advantage of the occasion, had given her her childhood address, with the charge, if she had time, to bring her mother some dried fruits she had saved for her; and to tell her, at the same time, that she was well, sent her infinite kisses, etc. Now, that busybody, going, punctual and solicitous, to the Pallonetto in Santa Lucia, to N.’s mother, hadn’t been content to bring her the fruit, the kisses, and the good news from her daughter, in accord with the commission she had been given; but, after a while, chatting, had taken it on herself to reveal the low opinion that our fellow citizens, especially the women, had of my father! As it seems, the Procidans considered my father a terrible husband, and N.’s friends and acquaintances, talking about her behind her back, lamented her fate.

  First of all, they accused my father of leaving his wife alone all the time. In Procida, they observed, it’s true, many wives were left alone by their husbands for long periods of the year, but those husbands were sailors: if they traveled far from their wives, the reason was their job. My father, however, wasn’t a sailor; he was an idler, and if he behaved that way with his wife, it was because he had no conscience, etc., etc.

  It’s hard to imagine everything that that gossip said to N.’s mother (after at least a dozen oaths, on the part of N.’s mother, that she would never tell her daughter that the friend had been so underhanded!). Certainly the conversation between the two ladies must have been long and impassioned; in fact, I wonder that the woman didn’t miss the return boat to Procida. In the following days, detained by her occupations, she didn’t show up at N.’s, satisfied with sending word, through others, that her mother was well, sent kisses in return, etc. So N. remained absolutely in the dark regard
ing this story (and she remained partly in the dark about it forever, because her mother, having sworn so many oaths, would never admit the whole truth).

  Neither N. nor I could have predicted anything: when, two days after my stepbrother’s birth, in the afternoon, we heard a rather energetic knocking at the street entrance. Just then we were only three in the house: N. with the baby and me. And so it was I who went to the door. And I found myself facing a short woman with that weary, abundant, and immense corpulence that is proper to mothers of families. Her bosom, in particular, astonished me by its vastness.

  On her feet she wore cast-off men’s shoes, without socks; and the rest of her outfit was, besides shabby, rather slovenly and dirty. But still that unknown visitor was imposing because of an air of sumptuous grandeur, which derived from indignation. It was evident, in fact, that she was possessed at that moment by a passionate indignation: her black gypsy eyes emitted fire, and her attitude was that of a sultan determined to avenge an outrage. She was alone; but following her, outside the gate, I glimpsed a number of Procidan women, who must have accompanied her so far; and who, at my appearance, retreated, hurrying back down the path.

  First of all, the mysterious stranger asked who I was: “I am Arturo!” I said. “Arturo, oh! My son-in-law’s boy . . .” she said quickly. “And I am Violante, Nunziata’s mother!” she declared.

  Then, assertively, although with a very faint shadow of apprehension in her voice, she asked about my father; but at the response, that he was still traveling, she displayed a certain relief, and her audacity had no more limits. Vehemently she came through the door, asking in a peremptory tone:

  “And my daughter, where is she? Where is my daughter?”

  And she started immediately up the stairs, calling: “Nunzià, Nunziàààà!”

  Here, although irritated by her manner, I considered it my duty to accompany her, since she was a relative of ours. Thus I resolutely pushed her toward the wall (the stairs were too narrow for two people to go up together) and, preceding her, led her to the second floor, to Nunz’s room.

  She was lying in bed with the baby, surrounded by four of her Virgins, happy and tranquil. But at first sight her mother shouted, “Nunzià! Nunziatè!” in a tone so tragic that it was as if she had found her bound in chains in the depths of a cellar, eating bread and water, beaten every day, and covered with wounds. Then, having exchanged with her some thirty or forty kisses, she left the bed and announced, with savage resolution:

  “I’ve come to take you home, my darling. Get up right away, bring the baby, and in the nightgown just as you are, you’ll come home!”

  At this news, N., who at the appearance of her mother had become red with joy, changed her expression:

  “Why, Ma? Did something happen? To . . . my sister?”

  “No, nothing’s happened, your sister is fine.”

  “Maybe . . . to Vilèlm?” N. then asked in a faint voice.

  “Oh, no. Don’t give a thought to him. I assure you that he’s always fine. Enough, don’t say a word, listen to what Mamma tells you. Look, we won’t let him catch cold, we’ll wrap him in that blanket. Oh, yes, of course,” she added, casting her eyes spitefully in my direction, “we’ll bring their blanket back later, we don’t want to keep it. We’ll send it right back tomorrow, with the cabin boy.” At this point I whistled with extreme contempt and said to her: “You make me laugh!”

  She went over again to N. and, with a domineering expression, kissed her all over her face; but my stepmother, although somewhat seduced by those kisses, didn’t return them, and remained very serious, as if defending herself. “Really, Ma, if nothing has happened,” she said, in an increasingly suspicious and restless tone, “why do you suddenly come and talk to me about leaving home . . . with this two-day-old creature . . . and unable even to tell my husband . . . ?” Upon hearing my father named, the other stopped kissing her. “Your husband . . .” she repeated with a grim look. Then, straightening up, she added, some sharp notes in her voice: “Oh, your husband! I forgot about him . . . In fact, tell me something! Why is he absent, these days? and where is he? Eh? We’d like to know!”

  “Where is he . . . he’s traveling . . . what do I know?” N. murmured, confused by this aggression. But, at that response, her mother’s face betrayed true ferocity: “What do I know, eh?” she uttered. “Look what a fine answer a poor girl has to give, concerning her husband: What do I know? So for him the family is garbage, eh, that you leave in the corner! Oh, so they said, but I didn’t want to believe it, and I came from Naples on purpose to find out!”

  “Oh, Ma,” N. exclaimed, rebelling, her lips trembling, and scowling fiercely, “after nearly a year we’ve been apart, you’ve come here to tell me these nasty things! And who was it who spoke ill of my husband? . . . It must have been Cristina, that gossip, who doesn’t understand a thing!” she judged after a little, dark in the face, guessing readily the true origin of the outrage.

  “Cristina . . . who? That friend of yours from Procida? Come on, yes! That poor woman! Who barely had time to say hello, deliver the package of figs, and say goodbye, or else she’d miss the boat! Eh, what do you suspect? She didn’t say a thing . . . Now instead Mamma tells you truly, Nunzià, who it is that spoke to me: my heart, that’s who spoke to me! I heard like a voice in my breast that said to me: ‘Hurry up, Viulante, dig up that three lire fifty for the boat, no matter the sacrifice, and go to your Nunziata, who over on the island of Procida is weeping bitter tears.’ And here, now, I get the proof of what my heart told me! When I hear that your husband doesn’t even let you know where he is! Not even a postcard!”

  “If he doesn’t send news it’s not to make me suffer, it’s because he forgets! A man has so many thoughts, he can’t always write to his family!” N. replied, more and more offended at those charges.

  “Thoughts! who can understand them, those thoughts of his? Why wouldn’t he tell you?”

  “Well, he’s not a woman, who thinks it’s a sin to keep a secret!”

  “And why is he always traveling? Maybe he’s a sailor, him, that he has to be traveling all the time!”

  “Oh, Ma, I can tell from what you’re saying who talked to you! Because the people here, the Procidans, hate him, just for that reason: because they’re sailors and they have to travel for money! While he doesn’t travel to make a living and doesn’t obey any government. He travels,” she concluded proudly, “because it’s fantastic! And to satisfy his whims!”

  “Oh! Whims! Eh! So he’s even found an advocate, he has! I know you, come on, ever since you were a child you were called Nunziata, because she doesn’t want to be contradicted. But my name is Viulante, and I say: Mea culpa! Because I, I’m the one who gave my daughter to that murderer! You were against it, you had a feeling, and even though you’re a child you had better judgment than Mamma! Think of it! It seemed to me I’d found America for you, finding that husband; but now my eyes have been opened, and I see this fine affair we’ve managed! Look who I married you to, you my own flesh and blood! I married you to a pig, a criminal, who left you to give birth here abandoned and alone, miserably, as if you were some prostitute. And always leaving you alone, without anyone, like you had the plague, while he goes off to have fun!”

  At those invectives, N. seemed not only offended but frightened, and a cold pallor descended over her face, as if she were sick. She rose halfway up from the bed, placing one foot on the floor, and in a heavy, violent tone repeated:

  “What are you saying? Be quiet, Ma.” At the same time her eyes kept moving toward me, worried that I had had to hear that talk; and when her agitated gaze rested on me she let an affectionate smile show through. As if, among other things, she meant to say: “It’s not true that I was alone: Arturo was here with me. You’re insulting Arturo more than anyone: is he no one? Arturo, my dear companion!”

  Then, feeling sorry for her, so humiliated by her mother, I responded with a glance that, along with a scornful shrug of the shoulders, meant
: “Don’t pay any attention to her, she’s crazy, she doesn’t know who she’s talking about.”

  All this carrying on had agitated my stepbrother, who began to cry desperately. Immediately she turned her trembling, stern head and tried to console him; and, when he wouldn’t calm down, she and her mother together began to say to him the usual stupid things that babies like. Finally, to make him happy, she gave him her breast, and while she nursed, the other remained quiet for some moments; then, suddenly, looking at her daughter with eyes of bitter passion, she broke into sobs and went out into the hall with her arms raised, and new tirades against my father.

  Although I considered her of no account, I followed her lazily, hands in my pockets, to keep a closer eye on her. After all, since she was so angry at my father, and couldn’t vent against him in person, she might, for example, go and tamper with his treasures: the underwater mask, the telescope, the fishing gun, etc., that he had left at home; and she might ruin them! Or maybe, in her fury, she would go and tear up my writings, my poems! But, luckily, she didn’t dare so much; she contented herself with going around like an enraged bear, gazing at the walls with tearful eyes. “And this,” she commented, “is the famous castle! This cave! Criminal murderer, he deceived me. To listen to him, he was a rich man, a millionaire, with his castle! But to me this looks like a cave. A real cave!” N. had come to the doorway with the infant at her breast, and, proud of her castle, at those words she exclaimed, amid tears of revolt: “Oh, Ma, what are you saying? Now, don’t let people hear you, saying this is a cave! It’s a valuable castle, partly because of its age, and everybody likes it!” But, looking with curiosity at our dirty, cracking walls, at the curtains that hung like rags, and at the floor that was like a field full of holes, I admitted to myself that, in reality, the comparison to a cave might be right. A cave! Or an enormous hut! (It should be noted that caves and huts, in my opinion, were very seductive places. And, as a result, I confess that even in the midst of such a drama I was happy inside about that interesting dwelling of ours.)