But of course, darling.
Is the Son not here?
The Son? said the Mother, to give the Uncle time to emerge from his elsewhere and help out, but since nothing happened, Ah, the Son, of course, the Son, obviously, my Son, yes, it’s a good question. Then she turned to the Father. Dear?
In England, said the Father, with complete serenity. Do you have an idea of what England is, signorina?
I think so.
There. The Son is in England. But temporarily.
In the sense that he’ll be back?
Certainly, as soon as we summon him.
And you’ll summon him?
It’s definitely something we ought to do as soon as possible.
This very day, the Mother specified, unfurling a particular smile that she kept for important occasions.
So that afternoon — and not before he had exhausted the liturgy of breakfast — the Father sat down at his desk and undertook to record what had happened. He did this, usually, with some delay — I refer to the recording of the facts of life, and especially those that involved some disorderliness — but I wouldn’t want this to be interpreted as a form of sluggish inefficiency. It was, in reality, a reasonable precaution, on doctor’s orders. As everyone knew, the Father was born with what he liked to define as “an imprecision of the heart,” an expression that should not be placed in a sentimental context: something irreparable had torn in his cardiac muscle when he was still a hypothesis under construction in his mother’s womb, and so he was born with a heart of glass, which first the doctors and later, in consequence, he was resigned to. There was no cure, except for a prudent and slowed-down approach to the world. If you believed the books, a particular shock, or an unprepared-for emotion, would carry him off immediately. The Father, however, knew from experience that this should not be taken too literally. He had understood that he was on loan to life, and he had drawn from that a tendency toward caution, an inclination to order, and the confused certainty of inhabiting a special destiny. To this should be attributed his natural good humor and occasional ferocity. I would like to add that he didn’t fear death: he had such familiarity, not to say intimacy, with it that he was absolutely certain he would sense its arrival in time to use it well.
So, that day, he wasn’t in a particular hurry to record the appearance of the young Bride. Yet, with the usual tasks taken care of, he didn’t avoid the job that awaited him: he bent over his desk and without hesitation composed the text of the telegram, conceiving it with respect for the elementary requirements of economy and the intention of achieving the unequivocal clarity that was necessary. It bore these words:
Young Bride returned. Hurry.
The Mother, for her part, decided that, no question, the young Bride, having no home of her own, and in a certain sense not even a family since every possession and every relative had moved to South America, would stay with them to wait. Since the Monsignor didn’t seem to offer any moral objection, despite the Son’s absence from the family roof, she asked Modesto to get the guest room ready, which they didn’t know much about, since no one ever stayed in it. They were moderately sure that it existed, however. It had the last time.
There’s no need for any guest room — she’ll sleep with me, the Daughter said tranquilly. She was sitting down, and at those moments her beauty was such that no one could refuse her.
If you’d like to, naturally, the Daughter added, seeking the young Bride’s gaze.
I would, said the young Bride.
So she joined the Household, which she had imagined that she would enter as a wife, and now instead found herself sister, daughter, guest, pleasing presence, decoration. Doing so turned out to be natural to her, and she quickly learned the habits and tempos of an unfamiliar way of life. She noted its strangeness, but seldom went so far as to suspect its absurdity. A few days after her arrival, Modesto approached and respectfully let her understand that if she felt the need for any explanations it would be his privilege to enlighten her.
Are there rules that have escaped me? asked the young Bride.
If I may, I will point out just four, so as not to put too many irons in the fire, he said.
All right.
The night is feared, but I imagine you’ve already been informed of that.
Yes, of course. I thought it was a legend, but I see that it’s not.
Exactly. And that is the first.
To fear the night.
To respect it, let’s say.
To respect it.
Precisely. Second: unhappiness is not welcome.
Oh, no?
Don’t misunderstand me, the thing must be understood in its correct context.
Which is what?
In the course of three generations, the Family has amassed a considerable fortune, and if you happen to wonder how it achieved such a result may I suggest the answer: talent, courage, malice, lucky mistakes, and a profound, consistent, flawless sense of economy. When I speak of economy I don’t mean only money. This family wastes nothing. Do you follow me?
Of course.
You see, here they tend to believe that unhappiness is a waste of time and hence a form of luxury that for a number of years yet cannot be allowed. Maybe some tomorrow. But, for now, there is no circumstance of life, however painful, from which souls may be permitted to steal more than a momentary confusion. Unhappiness steals time from joy, and in joy prosperity is built. If you think about it for a moment, it’s very simple.
May I raise an objection?
Please.
If they are such maniacs for economy, how does that fit with those breakfasts?
They aren’t breakfasts: they are rites of thanksgiving.
Ah.
And then I said a sense of economy, not stinginess, a characteristic completely alien to the Family.
I understand.
I’m sure — these are nuances that you are certainly able to grasp.
Thank you.
There is a third rule to which I would draw your attention, if I may continue to impose on your time.
Take advantage. If it were up to me, I would listen to you for hours.
Do you read books?
Yes.
Don’t.
No?
Do you see books in this house?
No, in fact, now that you point it out, no.
Exactly. There are no books.
Why?
The Family has great faith in things, in people, and in themselves. They don’t see the need to resort to palliatives.
I’m not sure I understand.
Life already has everything, provided you listen to it, and books are a useless distraction from that task, which this entire family attends to with such dedication that a man engaged in reading, in these rooms, would necessarily seem a deserter.
Surprising.
Debatable, too. But I consider it right to emphasize that this tacit rule is interpreted very strictly in this house. May I make a modest confession?
I would be honored.
I love to read, so I keep a book hidden in my room, and I devote some time to it, before going to sleep. But never more than one. When I finish it, I destroy it. This is not to suggest that you do the same; it’s so that you’ll understand the gravity of the situation.
I think I understand, yes.
Good.
There was a fourth rule?
Yes, but it’s more or less self-evident.
Tell me.
As you know, the Father has an imprecision in his heart.
Of course.
Don’t expect from him distractions from a general, necessary tranquility. Or claim them, naturally.
Naturally. Is he really in danger of dying at any moment, as they say?
I’m afraid so, yes. But you must realize that during the daylight hours there is practically no danger.
Ah, yes.
Good. I think that’s all, for now. No, one more thing.