The Lying Life of Adults. Elena Ferrante

and said:

      “Tell your father that I made you dance the same dance that I danced for the first time with Enzo. Tell him that, word for word.”

      “O.K.”

      “And now that’s enough.”

      She pushed me away forcefully, and, suddenly deprived of her warmth, I muffled a cry, as if I’d felt a sharp pain somewhere but was ashamed to show myself weak. It seemed wonderful that after that dance with Enzo she hadn’t liked anyone else. And I thought she must have preserved every detail of her unique love, so that maybe, dancing with me, she had relived it moment by moment in her mind. I thought it was thrilling, I wanted to love, too, immediately, in that absolute way. Surely she had a memory of Enzo so intense that her bony organism, her chest, her breath had transmitted a little love into my stomach. I said softly, dazed:

      “What was Enzo like, do you have a picture?”

      Her eyes shone:

      “Good, I’m glad you want to see him. Let’s make a date for May 23rd and we’ll go: he’s in the cemetery.”

      3.

      In the days that followed, my mother tried delicately to carry out the mission my father must have entrusted to her: to find out if the encounter with Vittoria had succeeded in healing the involuntary wound that they themselves had inflicted. This kept me constantly alert. I didn’t want to show either of them that I hadn’t disliked Vittoria. So I forced myself to hide the fact that, although I continued to believe in their version of things, I also believed a little in my aunt’s. I carefully avoided saying that Vittoria’s face, to my great surprise, had seemed so vividly insolent that it was very ugly and very beautiful at the same time, and so now I was hovering between the two superlatives, puzzled. Mainly I hoped that I wouldn’t give away by some uncontrollable sign or other—a flash in the eyes, a blush—the appointment in May. But I had no experience as a deceiver, I was a well-brought-up child, and I felt my way blindly, sometimes answering my mother’s questions with excessive prudence, sometimes taking things too lightly and in the end talking recklessly.

      I made a mistake that very Sunday, in the evening, when she asked me: “How did your aunt seem to you?”

      “Old.”

      “She’s five years younger than me.”

      “You look like her daughter.”

      “Don’t make fun of me.”

      “It’s true, Mamma. You and she are very far apart.”

      “About that there’s no question. Vittoria and I were never friends, even if I did all I could to love her. It’s hard to have a good relationship with her.”

      “I noticed.”

      “Did she say nasty things?”

      “She was testy.”

      “And then?”

      “Then she got a little angry because I didn’t wear the bracelet she gave me when I was born.”

      I said it and immediately regretted it. But anyway it had happened, I felt myself blush, and immediately tried to figure out if mentioning the jewelry had made her uneasy. My mother reacted in a completely natural way.

      “A bracelet for a newborn?”

      “A bracelet for an older girl.”

      “That she supposedly gave to you?”

      “Yes.”

      “I don’t think so. Aunt Vittoria never gave us anything, not even a flower. But if it interests you, I’ll ask your father.”

      That upset me. Now my mother would report the story to him, and he would say: so it’s not true that they talked only about school, about Ida and Angela, they also talked about other things, of many things that Giovanna wants to hide from us. How stupid I’d been. I said confusedly that I didn’t care about the bracelet and added in a tone of disgust, Aunt Vittoria doesn’t wear makeup, doesn’t wax her facial hair, has eyebrows this thick, and when I saw her she wasn’t wearing earrings or even a necklace; so if she ever gave me a bracelet it was probably very ugly. But I knew that any dismissive remark was now pointless: from here on, whatever I said, my mother would talk to my father and would report to me not her true response but the one they had agreed on.

      I didn’t sleep well, at school I was often scolded because I was distracted. The bracelet came up again when I was sure that my parents had forgotten about it.

      “Your father doesn’t know anything about it, either.”

      “About what?”

      “The bracelet Aunt Vittoria says she gave you.”

      “I think it’s a lie.”

      “That’s for certain. Anyway, if you want to wear one, look through my things.”

      I really did go and rummage through her jewelry, even if I knew it by heart—I had played with it since I was three or four. The objects didn’t have much value, especially the two bracelets she had: one gold-plated with little angel charms, the other silver with blue leaves and pearls. As a child I loved the first and ignored the second. But lately I’d grown to really like the one with the blue leaves, even Costanza had once praised its craftsmanship. So, to let it be understood that I wasn’t interested in Vittoria’s gift, I began to wear the silver bracelet at home, at school, and when I saw Angela and Ida.

      “It’s so pretty,” Ida exclaimed once.

      “It’s my mother’s. But she said I can wear it when I want.”

      “My mother doesn’t let us wear her jewelry,” said Angela.

      “What about that?” I asked, indicating a gold necklace she was wearing.

      “It’s a present from our grandmother.”

      “Mine,” said Ida, “I got from a cousin of our father’s.”

      They often spoke of generous relatives, some of whom they were very fond of. I had had only the nice grandparents in Museo, but they were dead and I had a hard time remembering them, so I had often envied Angela and Ida their relatives. But now that I had established a relationship with Aunt Vittoria it occurred to me to say:

      “My aunt gave me a bracelet much nicer than this.”

      “Why don’t you ever wear it?”

      “It’s too precious, my mother doesn’t want me to.”

      “Show it to us.”

      “Yes, sometime when my mother’s out. Do they make you hot chocolate?”

      “My father has let me taste the wine,” said Angela.

      “Me, too,” said Ida.

      I explained proudly:

      “My grandmother made me hot chocolate when I was little and even until right before she died: not normal chocolate, my grandmother’s was all frothy, really good.”

      I had never lied to Angela and Ida, that was the first time. I discovered that lying to my parents made me anxious, while lying to Angela and Ida was fun. They had always had toys more exciting than mine, clothes more colorful, family stories more surprising. Their mother, Costanza, who came from a family of goldsmiths from Toledo, had boxes full of jewelry, all of it valuable, countless gold and pearl necklaces, earrings, and piles of bracelets and bangles, a couple that she wouldn’t let them touch, and one that she was extremely fond of and wore often, but for the rest—for the rest she had always let them play with it, and I was allowed to play with it, too. So as soon as Angela stopped being interested in hot chocolate—that is, almost immediately—and wanted some more details about the very precious piece of jewelry from Aunt Vittoria, I described it in great detail. It’s pure gold with rubies and emeralds, it sparkles—I said—like the jewelry you see in movies and on television.