Woman of Rome

by Lily Tuck

  Woman of Rome

  A Life of Elsa Morante

  Lily Tuck

  Contents

  Introduction

  One Two Uncles

  Two Secret Games

  Three Diary 1938

  Four The War Years

  Five House of Liars

  Six Rome

  Seven Arturo’s Island

  Eight Without the Comfort of Religion

  Nine Poetry and Pasolini

  Ten The World Saved by Children

  Eleven History

  Twelve Aracoeli

  Thirteen Elsa’s Death

  Epilogue

  Notes

  Works by Elsa Morante

  Acknowledgments

  Searchable Terms

  About the Author

  Other Books by Lily Tuck

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  INTRODUCTION

  Elsa Morante was not amiable, she was not genial, she was not sweet or always nice. She was not a woman with whom one could have a casual conversation or speak about mundane things. She took offense easily, she made quick and final judgments, she constantly tested her friends. A truth teller, she tended to say hurtful things. She was immensely talented, passionate, often impossible, courageous, quarrelsome, witty, ambitious, generous. She loved Mozart, she loved children, animals—especially, cats, Siamese cats. She detested any sort of artifice, posturing, falsehood, she detested the misuse of power. She once admitted that she detested biography. The biographer, she claimed, always divulged what one is not.

  On a warm, sunny day in April 2005, I begin my search for Elsa and for the people who knew her by ringing the bell for the portiere of the nondescript, modern, yellow brick building at via dell’Oca 27, just off the Piazza del Popolo, where Elsa Morante once lived. It takes the portiere a while to answer me through the intercom.

  “Chi è? Chi è?” she shouts. I try to explain in my halting Italian that I want to ask her something.

  “Momento,” she finally says.

  Looking up, I can see Elsa Morante’s penthouse terrace, which is filled with potted plants: bougainvillea, oleander and lemon trees whose branches are falling over with fruit. Pigeons strut confidently on the sidewalk close to my feet and across the street a restaurant with an outdoor seating area is starting to fill up with noontime luncheon customers.

  At last the portiere opens the front door for me.

  “Buon giorno, signora,” I say. I also say that I hope I am not disturbing her before I go on to tell her that I am writing about Elsa Morante and ask if it would be possible for me to see the apartment where she lived.

  The mention of Elsa Morante’s name fills the portiere with sudden indignation. Rage, even. Her hands on her hips, she stands in front of me and shouts that yes, Elsa Morante lived in the building but she knows nothing about Elsa Morante! She has nothing to do with Elsa Morante! She could not care less about Elsa Morante! And moreover, she adds, can I not see that it is lunchtime? Still furious, she slams shut the front door of the building.

  Of course, Elsa Morante is well-known in Italy but until recently—when there was a renewal of interest on the twentieth anniversary of her death—few Italians actually read much of her work. In some high schools, students are now obliged to read a few chapters of La Storia (History), her best-known and longest novel. There are also the finely edited and handsome two volumes of her collected work published by Meridiani Mondadori. But, there is, to date, only one full-length study devoted to Morante’s work (in English) and, until now, there has been no biography (in any language). It has been suggested that the reason for this is that Italy does not concern itself with the paraphernalia of literature: the correspondence, letters, the gossip about literary figures. It has also been pointed out that had Elsa Morante and her husband, Alberto Moravia, been French, they would have been as much celebrated as Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir. Sadly, it is not surprising then that there is no plaque on Elsa Morante’s apartment door, no monument to her, no street named after her. There is small comfort to be had in the knowledge that when Alberto Moravia—despite the fact that of the two writers, he was by far the more famous and enjoyed a great reputation throughout the world—was asked who was the most important writer of his generation, he was always quick to answer: Elsa Morante.

  I first went to Rome as a child. In 1948, after the war, the film industry played a large role—far larger than literature—in determining the cultural life of the Eternal City, attracting film producers, directors, actors and technicians from all over the world to Rome. My father was such a person. Growing up, I loved spending my summers with my bachelor father. I loved the lack of supervision. I loved that I went horseback riding every afternoon at an elegant equestrian center on via Cassia. Once, briefly, I met Alberto Moravia. I had lunch at his house on the beach in Fregene. I don’t remember the exact circumstances, only that I drove out with a friend, a young Chilean named Sergio, who knew Moravia or knew someone who knew him. It was a hot, overcast day and I went swimming. Afterward, as I was changing out of my bathing suit and standing naked about to step into my underwear, Moravia barged into the room without knocking. As far as I know (I am sure I would remember if I had), I never met Elsa Morante. However, I would like to think that our paths might have crossed at least once or twice: we might have passed each other on a street in Trastevere where ripe oranges drop from trees and bougainvillea bloom from terraces; we could have stood browsing together, almost rubbing elbows, looking at the new novels in Lion’s, the English bookstore near Piazza di Spagna or crossed each other on the Spanish Steps on the way to Trinità dei Monti; or better yet, on warm summer evenings, we might have sat at nearby tables at the Café de Paris, on the via Veneto, eating our gelato and participating in that typical Roman pastime—watching people go by.

  I read Arturo’s Island, Elsa Morante’s second novel, when it was first translated into English in 1959 while I was sunbathing on the beach in Capri (and, who knows, Elsa, who loved to sunbathe, might have been there as well)—not far from the island of Procida, where the novel is set. Right away Arturo’s Island became a sort of cult book among many American college students as well as one of my favorites. And although I did not necessarily identify with Arturo the protagonist—my life was primarily urban and quite different from his—the book struck a deep chord. Also the novel surprised and shocked me, I had never read anything quite like it, and it made me curious about the author. I imagined that she was mysterious and strange and very beautiful, which Elsa Morante was—I think she had the sort of face which changes constantly so that at times she appeared beautiful and at others less so. And, finally, already as a young woman I knew that I wanted to become a writer. A writer like Elsa Morante.

  When I began this book, I did not immediately realize how much, as a consequence of writing about Elsa, the years I lived in Rome would affect and color these pages and that such a large Pandora’s box filled with my own memories would all of a sudden open. Memories that have been made still more vivid by my many recent visits to Rome—a city that has remained remarkably unchanged and unmarked by the passage of time and where, to my immense pleasure, I have been able to recapture a part of my own past.

  In the United States, Elsa Morante is virtually unknown. This book—an effort to re-create her life by means of research, interviews and a close reading of her work—attempts to bring more attention to her and to her oeuvre and to open that door which the portiere, whom I unwittingly disturbed during the sacred ora di pranzo, so rudely closed in my face.

  one

  TWO UNCLES

  The year of Elsa Morante’s birth is well known. But, as a favor, in an autobiographical piece she wrote in 1960, she has ask
ed that her biographer not mention the date—not because she is vain but because, for her, one year is as good as the next and she would prefer to remain ageless.1 It is the same year that the Titanic set out on its doomed maiden voyage with 2,224 passengers and crew members on board; the same year that Germany, the Austro-Hungarian Empire and Italy renewed the Triple Alliance; the year of the outbreak of the Balkan War, which set the stage for World War I; the year the Olympic games were held in Stockholm and the twenty-four-year-old Native American Jim Thorpe won both the pentathlon and decathlon (he was later stripped of his medals when it was learned that he had played semiprofessional baseball); in the United States, the year that New Mexico and Arizona became states; the year that the German geologist and meteorologist Alfred Lothar Wegener proposed his theory of continental drift, arguing that the earth’s continents had once been a single large landmass and were still in the process of change; and, finally, in Rome, the year that the first activities of the Italian Boy Scouts, founded by Carlo Colombo and known as Giovani Esploratori Italiani, took place.

  In a poem Elsa Morante wrote many years later, she claimed to have been born of a “difficult love” at that “bitter hour at midday / under the sign of Leo / on a Christian feast day.”2 She also claimed in “Our Brother Antonio,” a newspaper piece she published in 1939, that from the very day of their birth, she and her brothers all showed themselves to be extraordinary paragons of virtue. She for example was born with a crown of gold hair so thick and so long that, immediately, the attending nurse who delivered her had to braid and tie it with a blue ribbon.3 (Photos, however, always show Elsa with short, dark hair—so what, one wonders, could she have been thinking of? And what, one also wonders, is true?) At the time of Elsa’s birth, the Morante family lived at via Anicia 7 but, soon after, they moved to a small, squalid apartment on via Amerigo Vespucci 42, located in the Testaccio, which was then a working-class district of Rome. Later, Elsa Morante said she grew up in the company of both poor and rich children (the latter no doubt the children of the friends of Elsa’s rich godmother, Donna Gonzaga) and thus she learned not to judge anyone by social class but by his or her kindness instead. In fact, the cruelest child she ever met, who made her drink gasoline, was the son of a butler while the nicest was a young patient at Gabelli (a famous Roman hospital which treated only venereal diseases), which, in retrospect, made her wonder what sort of pervert he may have been. Elsa learned the alphabet and learned to write at the same time. She claimed to have composed her first poem when she was two and a half years old:

  Un povero galletto

  che stava alla finestra

  gli casca giù la testa

  e va e va e va.

  Un gallo piccolino

  che stava alla finestra

  gli casca giù la testa

  e non vede più e più

  A little rooster

  who was at the window

  fell down on his head

  and went and went and went.

  A small little rooster

  who was at the window

  fell down on his head

  and he nothing nothing sees.

  Not only was Elsa Morante a self-taught prodigy, she invented herself. At an early age, too, Elsa Morante imagined herself as other, as a boy. A boy, she thought, could be heroic; a girl could not.

  Elsa Morante was the oldest of four surviving children. An older brother, Mario, whom Elsa always inexplicably referred to as Antonio and to whom, later, she addressed her diary, died shortly after he was born. According to Elsa, this Mario/Antonio opened his eyes and saw the light and was so disgusted that he quickly closed them again. According to Elsa’s mother, who spoke of him often, comparing him to a famous king, had Mario/ Antonio lived, he would most certainly have become a prophet or a genius and brought honor to the family.4 Elsa described her brother Aldo, who was two years younger, as lively and rebellious; she also said that Aldo had a large black birthmark on his forehead (but there is no sign of the birthmark on any of the photographs of him nor does Aldo’s son, Paolo Morante, recall seeing a birthmark on his father’s forehead5). Marcello, the younger brother, was timid and shy and, early on, according still to Elsa, was prone to amorous attachments; five or six minutes after he was born he developed one for the nurse who delivered him, grasping her finger and not letting go. Finally, there was Maria, the youngest child—younger than Elsa by ten years.

  Elsa’s mother, Irma Poggibonsi,* came from the town of Modena in northern Italy; she was a schoolteacher and had literary aspirations. She was also Jewish and since she was terrified of being discovered to be Jewish, she made sure her children got a Catholic education. (When World War II broke out, she changed her name to Bisi and went into hiding in Padua, taking the youngest, Maria, with her. Marcello was sent to Tuscany: Aldo was interned in a concentration camp; Elsa, by then, was living on her own in Rome.) Little is known of Irma’s family. Her father was a hunchback whom everyone in the family was deeply ashamed of; Irma’s mother had repeated breakdowns that manifested themselves in various ways: locking herself up in the bedroom and running back and forth, battering her head against the walls until either her head cracked open or she was knocked unconscious.

  Irma’s husband, Augusto Morante, was a Sicilian and the children’s legal father. He worked as a probation officer at Aristide Gabelli, a boys’ reform school located at Porta Portese, in Trastevere. Augusto Morante was deeply in love with Irma Poggibonsi and while he was courting her, he wrote her a little love song:

  Irmina mia bella Irmina

  Irmina mia bella Irmina

  innamorato io son di te

  Irma my beautiful little Irma,

  Irma my beautiful little Irma,

  I am in love with you6

  Unfortunately, in bed, he proved to be impotent. On their wedding night and on many of the subsequent nights, poor Augusto tried all sorts of positions, all kinds of arrangements, turning Irma this way and that. All to no avail. Irma made him pay dearly for this. (Asked later why she did not leave him, Irma answered that if she had, Augusto would have killed himself.) Not only did Irma treat Augusto with contempt, she humiliated him: making him sleep alone in a small room in the basement of the house and making him eat his meals separately from the rest of the family (Augusto ate lunch at eleven and dinner at five, the rest of the family ate lunch at one and dinner at eight). He was excluded from all family functions and social gatherings and holidays; his attempts to become part of the family were mocked and considered inappropriate. As a result, he grew more and more silent and solitary, his appearance grew shabbier and shabbier, and his body gave off a bad odor. Augusto’s only pleasure (except the one Irma always accused him of and the reason, she also claimed, he was so hunched over) was cultivating the little land around the house and growing vegetables and flowers.

  The origins of Elsa Morante’s real father can only be guessed at.

  But growing up, the Morante children had two uncles, both of whom were called Ciccio, the nickname for Francesco. The two uncle Ciccios were easy to tell apart. One Ciccio was tall, handsome and elegant, with bright blue eyes, and spoke in a musical baritone; the other Ciccio was ugly and had a large nose that dripped. The ugly Ciccio was a police officer and Augusto’s brother, and he was known as the “true” uncle. The handsome Ciccio was not a relative but a family friend; he was known as the “false” uncle.

  Of course, the “false” uncle turned out to be the children’s real father.

  The family secret—and the one she never admitted to—was that Irma fell in love with the handsome, “false” uncle. Difficult to resist him—his good looks, his sense of humor. And when he came to visit, usually once a month—sometimes, he even spent the night on the living room sofa—Ciccio brought the family expensive biscuits and sang them songs, genuine songs, not silly made-up ones, in his lovely baritone voice. Years later, after her husband, Augusto, had died, Irma tried to force Ciccio to come back to her but she only succeeded in blackmailing him
into giving Aldo and Marcello money. The two boys remembered meeting Ciccio for coffee on Piazza della Rotonda. Eventually, Irma was told that Ciccio had committed suicide (this may or may not have been a ruse on his part to stop her from pursuing him).

  The “false” uncle was Sicilian and his real name was Francesco Lo Monaco. Long before Irma confessed to the children, Elsa had guessed that he was her father. In any event, years before she learned the truth, Elsa, half joking, half serious, told everyone that she knew who her real father was—he was the Duke of Aosta.7*

  Save for her large, dark, luminous eyes, Irma was not especially good-looking. She had short legs and a protruding stomach; worse, as she grew older, her face was covered with facial hair. More than anything, however, Irma had wanted a secure, settled life, a nice family and children. When this proved to be impossible with her husband, she agreed to take on a surrogate partner, even though she claimed that the sexual act filled her with nausea. In fact, Irma forbade any reference to sex or to bodily functions in the family. She herself would go to the toilet only in the middle of the night when everyone was asleep, so that no one would hear her pee.

  However, as a teacher, Irma had the reputation of being both dedicated and compassionate. She made a point of helping failing students and, when necessary, gave private lessons after school at no cost. At home, she did almost everything herself: cooking, cleaning, ironing. (For short periods of time, she hired servant girls but soon found fault with them and fired them.) As a result, Marcello, the youngest son, complained that the house was always dusty, dirty even, the clothes and linen never properly ironed. Irma’s best efforts were reserved for her cooking.8 When she was in a good mood, she liked to make up songs: one of them was about her children (Maria was not yet born); it began: