I held Nani’s pliant lips open with my thumb while I operated carefully with the tweezers. I have a horror of crawling things, but for that clot of humors I felt a naked pity.
23
I went to the beach in the late afternoon. I watched Nina in the distance, from my umbrella, again with the benevolent curiosity of the first days of the vacation. She was anxious, Elena wouldn’t leave her for an instant.
At sunset, as they were preparing to go home and the child was screaming that she wanted to go swimming again, and Rosaria intervened, offering to take her to the water, Nina lost her composure and began yelling at her sister-in-law, in a harsh dialect, full of vulgarity, which attracted the attention of the whole beach. Rosaria was silent. Instead Tonino, Nina’s husband, interrupted, and dragged her toward the shore, holding her by one arm. He was a man who seemed trained never to lose his composure, not even when his actions become violent. He spoke to Nina firmly but as if in a silent film, not a sound reached me. She stared at the sand, touched her eyes with her fingertips, occasionally said no.
The situation gradually became normal and the family swarmed in groups toward the villa in the pinewood, Nina exchanging cold words with Rosaria, Rosaria carrying Elena, now and again covering her with kisses. I watched Gino tidy up the beach chairs, lounge chairs, abandoned toys. I saw him pick up a blue pareo that had been left hanging on an umbrella and fold it carefully, with absorption. A boy came running back and, barely slowing down, grabbed the pareo rudely, then disappeared toward the dunes.
Time slipped away in a melancholy fashion, the weekend came, with its great influx of beachgoers; already on Friday they were arriving in masses. It was hot. The crowd increased Nina’s tension. She watched her daughter obsessively, springing like an animal as soon as she saw her move a few steps. We exchanged brief greetings at the water’s edge, a few words about the child. I knelt beside Elena, said to her something in play; her eyes were red and she had mosquito bites on her cheek and forehead. Rosaria came to put her feet in the water, but she ignored me; it was I who said hello and she answered reluctantly.
At one point during the morning I saw that Tonino, Elena, and Nina were having ice cream in the bar at the beach house. I passed by to go to the counter and order a coffee, but it seemed to me that they didn’t even see me, they were too taken up by the child. Yet, when I was about to pay, the manager told me that I owed nothing, Tonino had made a sign to put it on his bill. I wanted to thank him, but they had left, and were on the beach with Elena, paying little attention to her, though, for now they were quarreling.
As for Gino, it was enough for me to turn my head every so often to catch him watching them from a distance as he pretended to study. The beach got more and more crowded, Nina mingled among the bathers, but the boy put aside his textbook and began using the binoculars he had been issued, as if he feared from one moment to the next a tidal wave. I thought not so much of what he saw with his eyes empowered by the lenses but of what he imagined: the early hours of the hot afternoon, when the big family of Neapolitans retreated from the sea; the conjugal bed in the half light; Nina bound to the body of her husband, their sweat.
The young mother returned to the beach around five in the afternoon, cheerful, her husband beside her with Elena in his arms, and Gino stared at her, desolate, then hid his gaze in his book. Every so often he turned in my direction but immediately looked away. We were both waiting for the same thing: for the weekend to go by quickly, the beach to become peaceful again; Nina’s husband would leave, and she would again be in contact with us.
In the evening I went to the movies, an ordinary film in a half-empty theater. As the lights went out, and the film began, a group of boys came in. They ate popcorn, they laughed, they insulted one another, they tried out the rings of their cell phones, they shouted obscenities at the shadows of the actresses on the screen. I can’t bear to be disturbed when I’m watching a movie, even if it’s a bad movie. So at first I uttered imperious whispers, then, since they paid no attention, I turned to them and said that if they didn’t stop it I would call the usher. They were the boys from the Neapolitan family. Call the usher, they jeered, maybe they had never heard the word. One shouted at me in dialect: go ahead, bitch, why don’t you call the dickhead. I got up and went to the ticket window. I explained the situation to a bald man who seemed lazy but kind. He assured me that he would take care of it and so I went back into the theater amid the boys’ laughter. A moment later, the man pushed aside the curtain, entered, looked around. Silence. He stood there for a few minutes and then withdrew. Immediately the clamor started up again. The other spectators were silent; I rose and shouted, a little hysterically, I’m going to call the police. They began to sing, in falsetto, Viva, viva la polizia. I left.
The next day, Saturday, the little gang was at the beach, they seemed to be waiting for me. They jeered, they pointed, they stared at me, muttering to Rosaria. I thought of appealing to Nina’s husband, but I was ashamed of the idea, it seemed to me that I had momentarily entered into the logic of the group. Around two, exasperated by the crowd, by the loud music coming from the beach house, I gathered up my things and left.
The pinewood was deserted, yet soon I felt that I was being followed. The memory of the pinecone that had hit me in the back suddenly returned, and I walked faster. The scuffling sound behind me continued, and, in a panic, I started to run. The noises, the voices, the smothered laughter grew louder. The clamor of the cicadas, the odor of hot resin were no longer pleasant, but seemed a trove of anxiety. I slowed down: not because my fear was lessening but out of dignity.
At the apartment I felt ill, I broke out in a cold sweat, then felt hot, as if I were suffocating. I lay on the couch and slowly calmed down. I tried to rouse myself, and swept the house. The doll was still naked, head down in the bathroom sink, and I dressed her. The water was no longer gurgling in her stomach; I imagined her womb as a dry ditch. Organize, understand. I thought how one opaque action generates others of increasingly pronounced opacity, and so the problem is to break the chain. Elena would be happy to have her doll again, I said to myself. Or no, a child never wants only what it’s asking for, in fact a satisfied demand makes even more unbearable the need that has not been confessed.
I took a shower, looked in the mirror as I dried myself. The impression I had had of myself in these months changed abruptly. I wasn’t newly youthful but aged, excessively thin, a body so lean as to seem without depth, white hairs in the black of my sex.
I went out, found a drugstore where I could weigh myself. The scale printed out weight and height on a piece of paper. I was three inches shorter and underweight. I tried again and my height diminished further, as did my weight. I went away disoriented. Among my most dreaded fantasies was the idea that I could get smaller, go back to being adolescent, child, condemned to relive those phases of my life. I didn’t start liking myself until I turned eighteen, when I left my family, my city, to study in Florence.