A Life Apart (15 page)
“They made me take my clothes off while they stood in a circle around me. I was shaking so much I could hardly move, so it took me much longer than they'd thought. Then I closed my eyes and imagined I was back at your house, listening to âThe Flying Dutchman', you trying at the top of your lungs to sing the German words in the last act, when Erik desperately cries out to his beloved Senta as he is about to lose her: âWas musst' ich hören! Gott, was musst' ich seh'n! Ist's Täuschung? Wahrheit?
'
Is it illusion or truth? And Senta throws herself into the sea, singing, vowing faithfulness to the Dutchman doomed to eternal restlessness, âPreis deinen Engel und sein Gebot! Hier steh' ich, treu dir bis zum Tod' â faithful unto death. In my head, the music was covering the voices all around and I could no longer hear a word they said, until some liquid was splashed in my face, but it got mixed in with the water that swallowed up the loving face of Senta as she sank beneath the waves.”
“My God, what was it?”
“Orange juice.”
“Orange juice?” Lucilla repeats, and I can sense a smile breaking through her surprise and relief.
“That's right. I had my eyes closed, perhaps they were trying to make me open them, I don't know.”
“Orange juice â unbelievable. That's why you were dirty.”
“Yes. I must have actually sung out those German words
I hardly knew, and they took fright. And besides, the break was nearly ended by then. So they all ran off, but I didn't realise, and started rolling on the floor. A moment later Albina the beadle came up and found me.”
“In short, they thought God-knows-what had happened, and covered everything up,” Lucilla says as she lights another cigarette.
“That's right.”
“What did your father do?”
“He took me home, and we never spoke of it again. He sent the medical certificate the headmaster wanted, and a few teachers came to our house so I could sit my exam. Maddalena was always with me.”
“And then?”
“That summer I went to stay with Signora De Lellis for a few weeks. The Maestro had agreed to hold some summer courses abroad for the first time, precisely because he knew I would keep his mother company. Maddalena came every day to cook and help around the house. And so Signora De Lellis gave up her play-acting with her too, and she spoke and spoke, for days and weeks, and told us everything. Maddalena was crying, I was listening.”
“But she never stopped acting the sick mother with her son,” Lucilla says pensively.
“No, she didn't.”
“Do you know why?”
“Yes, I do: she wanted to protect him, and avoid having to tell him who his father was.”
“Do you know?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I have learnt to keep secrets by now,” Lucilla says, and I recognise her old, familiar curious self.
“It was his grandfather. Signora De Lellis's father. He was drunk and never even realised, and she loved her son too much to tell him. Only a love like that can heal wounds like those.”
“Good heavens!”
The expression I had always heard from her mother moves me much more than I would like it to.
“One day my father had a talk with Maddalena, and then went away,” I say, resuming my story.
“Yes, my aunt told me. But why?”
“Because he was feeling totally inadequate, as he said to her. He did not know how to protect me, just as he had not known how to protect my mother. Maddalena said that he had kept quiet before the headmaster so as to avoid exposing me to the world, perhaps even to a trial against those kids. He had wanted to spare me further sorrow, as he said.”
It was night time by now. The river was silent. The faraway sounds of the
Festa degli Oto
came muffled by the dense mists of autumn.
“Maddalena has stayed with me. My father gave her authority over everything. I know she consulted him now and again, if I got ill or if there were some papers to sign or some expensive decisions to make. I studied at the Istituto Cavanis because it was far from here, travelling back and forth every day. Maddalena drove me
until the time when I could go on my own. Then in the afternoons, the
conservatoire
and Signora De Lellis. Until the final diploma in piano.”
“What about the town?”
“The town has forgotten everything. The waters have closed over, as Maddalena would say.”
“And your father â where is he?”
“I don't know.”
“Jesus, you must hate him.”
“No: hatred is a feeling I don't know. Hatred is for those who don't understand. I think I can understand him: he's just â¦
sfumato
, as you would say of a musical piece that is too soft and must fade away.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am ugly ⦔
“You are ex-traor-din-ari-ly more beautiful these days!” Lucilla interrupts. “Your father did help you in the end, as he had promised.”
“Not him. With Maddalena's help, I spoke to some surgeons and redressed some of the simpler things: my right eye, the facial hair. A few things. In any case I am ugly, though I know I could live a different life if I were more of an extrovert, and better able to forget myself and my looks. But I can't do that, and so I live like this, locked up in here until the sun goes down, doing work that allows me to stay hidden. My father is very handsome, but like me he is unable to face the world. He would like to, but just can't, and for that reason I understand him. I am not unhappy, really I am not. I am fine in myself. And I'm not as lonely
as an opera singer accustomed to an audience might imagine. I have Maddalena. I have Maestro De Lellis. I have my work contacts. No, this is my life.”
“You can stay here if you like,” I say to Lucilla. “The house is mine now.”
“I have a little girl,” she replies.
“A little girl?”
“Yes. Her name is Rebecca.”
“Rebecca!”
“She's three years old. I call her Rebby.”
“And do you also have ⦠a man?”
“No. He lit out the morning after. I was still ⦠fat, back then.”
“Will she be ⦠frightened of me?”
“Don't talk nonsense.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pos-itive.”
“Then you can both stay here.”
I have never used my mother's perfume. I keep the bottles in my room, and little Rebby plays with them, turning them into circles of fairies dancing in rings. A few days ago she broke one. The whole house was flooded with scent.
Author's Acknowledgements
My thanks to the Premio Calvino. Each year, a beautiful world of people who love the written word generously gives of its time in order to read and read, searching for narratives that may be shared with those who move in the world of books.
They have given this novel their recognition.
Rebecca lives in the neighbourhood of Le Barche, at the foot of the hill which is home to the sanctuary of the Virgin of Monte Berico, whose festival the town celebrates each year on the 8th of September. This is the
Festa degli Oto,
*
which in my mind's eye opens and closes the story.
MARIAPIA VELADIANO
studied philosophy and theology at university and now works as a teacher.
A Life Apart
was the winner of the Premio Calvino, a prize for unpublished writers. It went on to be shortlisted for the Premio Strega, the most prestigious Italian literary prize.
CRISTINA VITI
is a translator and poet whose published work includes translations of Guillaume Apollinaire and Elsa Morante.
*
Translator's Note:
“oto”= “eight” in the local dialect.
