The Story of a New Name (The Neapolitan Novels) by Ferrante Elena

Author:Ferrante, Elena [Ferrante, Elena]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Europa
Published: 2013-09-03T00:00:00+00:00

58.

I understood only the next day what Pinuccia’s departure meant. That evening her absence struck me as positive: no more whining, the house quieted down, time slithered away silently. When I withdrew into my little room and Lila followed me, the conversation was apparently without tension. I held my tongue, careful to say nothing of what I truly felt.

“Do you understand why she wanted to leave?” Lila asked me, speaking of Pinuccia.

“Because she wants to be with her husband.”

She shook her head no, she said seriously, “She was becoming afraid of her own emotions.”

“Which means?”

“She fell in love with Bruno.”

I was amazed, I had never thought of that possibility.

“Pinuccia?”

“Yes.”

“And Bruno?”

“He had no idea.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Bruno’s interested in you.”

“Nonsense.”

“Nino told me yesterday.”

“He didn’t say anything to me today.”

“What did you do?”

“We rented a boat.”

“You and he alone?”

“Yes.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Everything.”

“Even about the thing I told you about?”

“What thing?”

“You know.”

“The kiss?”

“Yes.”

“No, he didn’t tell me anything.”

Although I was dazed by the hours of sun and swimming, I managed not to say the wrong thing. When Lila went to bed I felt that I was floating on the sheet and that the dark little room was full of blue and reddish lights. Pinuccia had left in a hurry because she was in love with Bruno? Bruno wanted not her but me? I thought back to the relationship between Pinuccia and Bruno, I listened again to remarks, tones of voice, I saw again gestures, and I was sure that Lila was right. I suddenly felt great sympathy for Stefano’s sister, for the strength she had shown in forcing herself to leave. But that Bruno was interested in me I wasn’t convinced. He had never even looked at me. Beyond the fact that, if he had had the intention that Lila said, he would have come to the appointment and not Nino. Or at least they would have come together. And anyway, true or not, I didn’t like him: too short, too curly-haired, no forehead, wolflike teeth. No and no. Stay in the middle, I thought. That’s what I’ll do.

The next day we arrived at the beach at ten and discovered that the boys were already there, walking back and forth along the shore. Lila explained Pinuccia’s absence in a few words: she had to work, she had left with her husband. Neither Nino nor Bruno showed the least regret and this disturbed me. How could someone vanish like that, without leaving a void? Pinuccia had been with us for two weeks. We had all five walked together, we had talked, joked, gone swimming. In those fifteen days something had certainly happened that had marked her, she would never forget that first vacation. But we? We, who in different ways had meant a lot to her, in fact didn’t feel her absence. Nino, for example, made no comment on that sudden departure. And Bruno confined himself to saying, gravely, “Too bad, we didn’t even say goodbye.” A minute later we were already speaking of other things, as if she had never come to Ischia, to Citara.

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