Lies and Sorcery by Elsa Morante

Author:Elsa Morante [Morante, Elsa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: New York Review Books
Published: 2023-10-23T00:00:00+00:00

3

The demise of an old atheist (with a dubious deathbed conversion). Francesco’s brief visit to purgatory

IT WAS about eleven in the morning when Francesco started up the path leading to his house. As he went, the farmers working in the fields on either side lifted their heads to see who was passing by, and recognizing him from afar, they tried to attract his attention by calling out to him and waving. But Francesco, who couldn’t be bothered to respond to their greetings or to engage in conversation, pretended not to see or hear them, continuing on his way, his eyes fixed straight ahead. The first person he met when entering the village was a woman who lived near his family. He also pretended not to see her and quickly looked away. But she, perhaps sensing his disdain, was determined to get her revenge, so in a shrill voice she called out to him, “Francesco!” The young man was thus forced to stop and turn in her direction. In a tone hovering between sorrow and reproach, and full of hypocrisy, she quickly added, “You’ve come too late!” And when Francesco, very upset, looked at her, she bleakly announced, “Your father is already in his grave.” And she made the sign of the cross.

She stared at his face to see the effect of her news, but Francesco, though he paled at the declaration, felt no pain; in fact, he was somewhat relieved. He’d already been prepared to find Damiano dying, or dead, and the thought that it was already over, the funeral ceremonies all done with, felt like a liberation. Not long ago, the death of someone who loved him selflessly, wanting nothing in return, neither love nor gratitude, someone who’d loved him blindly, that person’s humble and discreet demise would certainly have elicited pain and regret in him, feelings all the more intense because they were long in coming. But the Francesco of today hadn’t once thought of Damiano or Alessandra during his journey home. His thoughts hadn’t been on what lay before him but on what lay behind, and those thoughts were concentrated exclusively on one person: Anna. He was also grateful that fate had spared him the excruciating duty of witnessing his father’s death and taking part in the funeral rites. At least now he wouldn’t be required to participate in the care of the other mourners, from whom he felt estranged.

After hearing what the woman had to say, Francesco immediately went on his way, hurrying home to his mother. The kitchen door, which fronted a small square, was wide open and a faint liturgical smell of candle wax and incense, along with the jumbled sounds of women’s voices, emanated from the little house. Alessandra, her hair covered with a black veil, was seated in a circle with other village women. When her son came in she stood up and so did all the others. His mother moved towards him swiftly and theatrically, throwing her arms around his neck,

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