I hugged him tight, as I hadn’t in the past two years, ever since I’d wanted to feel grown up. But to my surprise, to my annoyance, I smelled on him an odor that didn’t seem like his, an odor I wasn’t used to. It gave me a sense of estrangement that provoked suffering mixed incongruously with satisfaction. It was clear to me that though until that moment I had hoped that his protection would last forever, now, instead, I felt pleasure at the idea that he was becoming a stranger. I was euphoric, as if the possibility of evil—what he and my mother in their couple’s language claimed to call Vittoria—gave me an unexpected exuberance.
11.
I pushed that feeling away, I couldn’t bear the guilt. I counted the days that separated me from Sunday. My mother was attentive, she wanted to help me get as much homework done for Monday as possible so that I could face the encounter without the worry of having to study. And she didn’t confine herself to that. One afternoon she came into my room with the street atlas, sat down beside me, showed me Via San Giacomo dei Capri and, page by page, the whole journey to Aunt Vittoria’s house. She wanted me to understand that she loved me and that she, like my father, only wanted me to be happy.
But I wasn’t satisfied with that small topographical lesson and in the days that followed devoted myself secretly to maps of the city. I moved with my index finger along San Giacomo dei Capri, reached Piazza Medaglie d’Oro, descended by Via Suarez and Via Salvator Rosa, reached Museo, traversed all of Via Foria to Piazza Carlo III, turned onto Corso Garibaldi, took Via Casanova, reached Piazza Nazionale, turned onto Via Poggioreale, then Via della Stadera, and, at the Pianto cemetery, slid along Via Miraglia, Via del Macello, Via del Pascone and so on, with my finger veering into the Industrial Zone, the color of scorched earth. All those street names, and others, became in those hours a silent mania. I learned them by heart as if for school, but not unwillingly, and I waited for Sunday with increasing agitation. If my father didn’t change his mind, I would finally meet Aunt Vittoria.
But I hadn’t reckoned with the tangle of my feelings. As the days laboriously passed, I surprised myself by hoping—especially at night, in bed—that for some reason the visit would be postponed. I began to wonder why I had forced my parents in that way, why I had wanted to make them unhappy, why I hadn’t considered their worries important. Since all the answers were vague, the yearning began to diminish, and meeting Aunt Vittoria soon seemed to me a request both extravagant and pointless. What use would it be to know in advance the physical and moral form that I would likely assume. I wouldn’t be able to get rid of the face or the chest anyway, and maybe I wouldn’t even want to, I would still be me, a melancholy me, an unfortunate me, but me. That wish to know my aunt should probably be inserted into the category of small challenges. In the end, wasn’t it ultimately just another way to test my parents’ patience, as I did when we went to a restaurant with Mariano and Costanza and I always ended up ordering, with the attitude of an experienced woman, and charming little smiles addressed mainly to Costanza, what my mother had advised me not to order because it cost too much. I then became even more unhappy with myself, maybe this time I had overdone it. The words my mother had used when she told me about her sister-in-law’s hatreds returned to mind, I thought again of my father’s worried speech. In the dark, their aversion for that woman was added to the fear instilled by her voice on the telephone, that fierce “hello” with its dialectal cadence. So Saturday night I said to my mother: I don’t feel like going anymore, this morning I got a lot of homework for Monday. But she answered: now the appointment is set, you don’t know how angry your aunt will be if you don’t go, she’d blame your father. And since I wasn’t convinced, she said that I had already fantasized too much, and even if I backed off now, the next day I would have second thoughts and we’d be right where we started. She concluded, with a smile: go and see what and who Aunt Vittoria is, so you’ll do all you can not to be like her.
After days of rain, Sunday was beautiful, with a blue sky and occasional little white clouds. My father made an effort to return to our usual lighthearted relationship, but when he started the car he became silent. He hated the ring road and got off it quickly. He said he preferred the old streets, and as we made our way into another city, made up of rows of small bleak apartment buildings, faded walls, industrial warehouses and sheds, gashes of green overflowing with garbage of every sort, deep puddles filled by the recent rain, putrid air, he became increasingly somber. But then he seemed to decide that he couldn’t leave me in silence, as if he had forgotten about me, and for the first time mentioned his origins. I was born and grew up in this neighborhood here—he said with a broad gesture that embraced, beyond the windshield, walls of tufa, gray, yellow, and pink apartment buildings—my family was poor, we didn’t even have two cents to rub together. Then he drove into an even bleaker neighborhood, stopped, sighed with irritation, pointed to a brick building whose façade was missing large patches of plaster. Here’s where I lived, he said, and where Aunt Vittoria still lives. I looked at him, frightened; he noticed.
“What’s wrong?”
“Don’t go.”
“I won’t move.”
“What if she keeps me?”
“When you’re tired, you’ll say: I have to go now.”
“What if she doesn’t let me go?”
“I’ll come and get you.”
“No, don’t, I’ll come.”
“All right.”
I got out of the car, went through the entrance. There was a strong odor of garbage mixed with the aroma of Sunday sauces. I didn’t see an elevator. I climbed up uneven, broken steps, beside walls showing broad white wounds, one so deep it seemed like a hole dug out to hide something. I avoided deciphering obscene sayings and drawings. I had other urgencies. My father had been a child and a boy in this building? I counted the floors, on the third I stopped, there were three doors. The one on my right was the only one that displayed a surname, and pasted to the wood was a strip of paper on which was written in pen: Trada. I rang the bell, held my breath. Nothing. I counted slowly to forty: my father had told me some years earlier that whenever you’re in a state of uncertainty you should do that. When I got to forty-one I rang again, the second electrical charge seemed exaggeratedly loud. A shout in dialect reached me, an explosion of hoarse sounds, and goddammit, what’s the hurry, I’m coming. Then decisive steps, a key that turned four times in the lock. The door opened, a woman dressed all in blue appeared, tall, with a great mass of very black hair arranged on her neck, as thin as a post, and yet with broad shoulders and a large chest. She held a lighted cigarette between her fingers, she coughed and said, moving back and forth between Italian and dialect:
“What’s the matter, you’re sick, you have to pee?”
“No.”
“So why’d you ring twice?”