‘What is it, Carluzzu? What’s happened?’
‘What happened is that I had to beat up your son, that is, according to the civil registry — my father I mean, if you believe that stinking birth certificate! I didn’t mean to, I know I didn’t want to! But all of a sudden he slaps me. I tell myself: be good, Carlo, it’s just the usual little slap. But then he starts yelling, and I can’t stand being yelled at, Nonna, you know that. So I made him shut up by force. And I could have killed him too!’
‘And then?’
‘I went to the port to vent my anger, walking up and down amid the fishmongers’ cries. Then I stopped at the mussel stand and I must have eaten a hundred raw mussels, I think! I downed them with a glass of wine and the steam went out of me. Oh, Mody — it may have been the mussels or the wine at midday — I felt like I was flying in the sunshine, light as a gull among the white walls and the shouts, the hot sun pressing at my back and the cool wind on my forehead. And I told myself: “Why lose all this for that animal? And then it’s no use thinking about taking a train, a steamship — you’ve already done that so many times — you’ll always come back here, like Zio ’Ntoni and Zio Jacopo.” Then I think about that animal again, your son … I see him slammed against the wall by my fists, his head lowered like a tired lion, and I feel a little sorry and I tell myself: “Let’s go see if he’s lost a few teeth … He cares a lot about his teeth: that dazzling smile he can flash at the jurors.” I know, it’s no use you smiling, we all went to night school, as Nicola says: I know it’s age-old remorse, ancestral. Who would dare raise a hand against his own father’s mane, white or not, be he a believer or an atheist? Fine, so I go back home, I open the door without making a sound, I go into the hall and what do I hear? You won’t believe it: his voice, pompous and persuasive like in court, saying on the phone: “Yes, it’s true, Mattia … he beat me up, that’s all there is to it! When you have a son of your own blood who is not a weakling, but a real man, this, too, can happen. Lucky you, you only have two girls!”’
‘And what did you do?’
‘Fischia! Damn! Hey, Mody, do you know that in Rome it’s popular for young people to say “fischia!”? Nicola told me. It’s awful, but it sticks in your mind like the lyrics to a bad song.’
‘And so?’
‘Fischia! Oh, sorry! So I uttered a string of dithyrambs à la Miller, the great blasphemous Henry,118 and completely satisfied with my cultural skills, I came straight to you, the one who gave them to me … Now let’s go! I’ll take you to a restaurant. Your grandson is rich today.’
‘Why is that?’
‘I finished the thesis for Nicola. Remember, I came to you for information? I steal your ideas on Anglo-Saxon literature, add a little something of my own and sell the product to Nicola, who is rich and doesn’t know a damn thing! Then he looks good at home and with his professor. Complete thievery, Nonna, on your shoulders…’
‘What could be better in this case than to be robbed? If they rob you, it means you’re rich, right?’
‘So, ragazzaccia, what will you have, naughty girl?’
‘Spaghetti!’
‘Me too! Hey my friend, two spaghetti alle vongole and torrents of white wine!’
‘What sunshine, Carlo! One more week and then we can swim until October.’
‘Do you know that you’re a fabulous little nonna?’
‘You gave me a stunning account of your morning, Carlo, but you didn’t tell me why you beat up my Prando.’
‘Are you fond of your Prando?’
‘No, but I love him.’
‘You have a clarity, Mody, that’s scary, as Nina says.’
‘So then, what did your old father want this morning?’
‘The same old story: “You’re young … you don’t know what it means to…” And always at the same time, at the table, when you’re famished and not in the mood: “Not everyone, son, has the good fortune of having a father who paves the way for him. Why pursue impossible things like archaeology when you have a law practice that yields like an oil well right here at your fingertips?” That was five years ago, remember? And to keep the peace, I said to myself: “Let’s make him happy; after all, he’s the boss, and with a boss, either you kill him right away, or you dupe him.” So I skip classes and repay him for what it cost him to raise me. Because that’s the point: all they want is for the money they spent on you to pay off. Forget paternal love! But is it true he was an anti-fascist, Mody?’
‘Of course, and a communist as well.’
‘If he was a communist, then why did he leave the Party when the 20th Congress119 took place? What did he think, that a revolution is all sweetness and light? Uncle Jacopo didn’t drop out; on the contrary, he told me back then in Milan that it was time to fight harder, to stay in the Party and finally make Gramsci’s ideas heard … I know, I’m sorry, we’ve talked about it so many times and I’m being a pest. It’s just that it’s hard for us young people to understand. Take Nicola … Outwardly, in public, his father declares himself communist, then on Sunday he goes to Mass. And in the evening they say prayers. What a screw-up, as Nina says! I can’t talk to Nicola anymore, Mody. It’s awful, but I’m going to lose him! It’s like he’s deflated, worn out. One day his mind seems clear, the next day he starts saying it’s all hopeless. Did you know he only reads Indian texts now? I read the Autobiography of a Yogi too, to try and understand him, but all I found in it was the usual warmed-over mysticism. How can people not see that it’s just another opiate packaged in America? What can you do? At least it’s not found in our house, thanks in part to the wife your son really doesn’t deserve. She’s on the ball, all right! I don’t know how she slaves away all day looking after Papa and still keeps up on things. Such a sharp mind! I don’t understand how a woman like her can put up with your son, Nonna, I just don’t get it! You didn’t stand for it.’
‘It’s because Amalia lacks confidence in herself, Carluzzu. She doesn’t know it, but she lacks confidence because she’s a woman.’
‘You know, sometimes I enjoy teasing her. I cosy up to her and ask her to run away with me. She pretends to be indignant, and in a beautiful full voice says: “But Carlo, I’m your mother!” And I say: “No, Amalia, I’m Stella’s son.” “But I’m old.” And I: “Stella was old too when she had me with your husband.” At this point, she flushes and says: “How awful to tell carusi the truth, they take advantage of it!” And she laughs … those are the few times I see her laugh. I feel so sorry for her that sometimes I almost feel I love her. Is it true, Mody, that love is so very, very close to compassion? It’s partly for her that I got my law degree. I tell myself: “Now that you’re a lawyer, Carlo, your father will be mollified. He’ll give you money and you can go to Greece for three months before you get into uniform.” Instead, this morning he comes out with: “So then, beginning tomorrow you’ll come to court with me and start learning the ropes.” And I: “But Papa, in six months I have to leave for military service!” And he says: “No, no, we’ll get you an exemption.” Resorting to nature as evidence, I reply: “But Papa, at over six feet tall and with a chest this broad it will be impossible!” And him: “Everything is possible for a Brandiforti!” I lose my appetite, and on my plate I see battlefields, compulsory calls to arms, crusades, and I realize why wars break out … it’s one way to escape from home. But Judas Priest, Mody! How can he talk like that at his age? How can he say: “You’ll see the moral satisfaction you’ll get from having an innocent man absolved!” For every one you save, there are a hundred in the prisons … Doesn’t he understand that here, everything should be called into question, starting with his morals, which are at least a thousand years old?’