* * *
Where to start with Anita and Sofia? He would bring ice cream or pastries from a French patisserie when he came to dinner, but the girls never thanked him. He asked them about school, whether they liked it and if they had good grades, but they mumbled something incomprehensible, avoiding his eyes. He bought a couple of books his daughter had loved (Ilaria was an avid reader), and gave them to Anita. She didn’t look interested; she didn’t ever open them and left them on the kitchen counter when she went back to her room. He tried to engage Sofia by asking what kind of music she liked, but the girl looked at her older sister, as if asking permission to answer his questions. Anita made a face and shrugged. Sofia turned to him and said she didn’t really listen to music much. Even the cat sprang from the couch and ran off each time he entered the living room.
He didn’t like to come to the part of the city where they lived; it was on the opposite side from where he lived, and very different. He seemed to remember that Pasolini had set one of his movies in Pigneto (he vaguely remembered stark black-and-white scenes in a squalid neighborhood), but he had never had a reason to drive through it and frankly he found it depressing. But more than that, it surprised him how neglected and messy Emilia’s home was, like a student’s place, how cheap the furniture, assembled without logic or taste. He’d much prefer to see her in their rented apartment at the other end of town, which was neutral and spotless (he paid a housecleaner to come once a week). When Emilia mentioned that keeping the apartment was an expense he and they could now do without, he told her there were boundaries that had to be respected, and that he’d never agree to have sex in what used to be Emilia’s marital bed. They needed to have a space that was theirs and theirs only, with no trace of their pasts. She apologized and agreed.
So far the meals with the girls had been painful. Yet Emilia kept pretending not to notice. Her denial was beginning to disturb him.
They hadn’t finished eating yet when Anita stood up.
“You should ask permission to leave the table,” Sandro snapped.
He didn’t even know where that had come from, and the minute he said it, he knew it had been a mistake. It was childish, but he felt it was time to teach her a lesson. Anita scowled. She stood still.
“Why?” she said, her eyes dark and mean.
“Because that’s what kids have to do.”
He pointed to the chair.
“Sit down. We’re not finished yet.”
There was a brief silence. Anita turned toward her mother, waiting for her to come to her aid. But Emilia kept her eyes on the plate, pretending nothing was required of her. Anita turned back to him, defiantly.
“You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not my father.”
“I know I’m not. Still, you should ask your mother for permission.”
Emilia pressed a hand on Anita’s shoulder, trying to push her back down into the chair. Anita shook her off.
“Don’t touch me!”
Then she turned to Sandro and repeated, shouting in his face, “You’re not my father!”
Sofia looked frightened, as if, by mentioning the word father, Anita had exposed the truth everyone around them had tried to conceal: how they had become helpless, at the mercy of any stranger.
Anita caught her by the arm and yanked her off the chair.
“Come on, let’s go.”
“Anita! Stop it!” Emilia grabbed her by the T-shirt. “Come back immediately!”
But Anita pulled away abruptly. There was a tear, the shirt ripped.
“I hate you! I hate you both!” she yelled and disappeared, dragging Sofia behind her.
Emilia put her elbows on the table and rested her face behind her hands for a couple of seconds. Then she shook her head ruefully.
“I’m so sorry. They’re out of control. I sometimes just don’t know what to do with them anymore,” she said, as if her own children had become strangers who temporarily occupied a space she wished she didn’t have to share.
As he drove across town to get home that night, Sandro couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was responsible for Emilia’s estrangement from her daughters. And it worried him how indifferent she seemed, how unconcerned about their needs. He and Emilia had gone too far, in a direction that was leading nowhere—now he could see how delusional they both had been, how they hadn’t seriously considered the consequences, ignoring how many people were going to be hurt and scarred. They had been too careless, he thought, as he parked the car along the sidewalk of his leafy street in Parioli. How quiet and civilized his neighborhood felt at that time of night. According to Emilia, Bruno had never suspected anything, and now that he was dead, Sandro was the only one left dealing with the guilt, the shame and the lies. It was unfair, he caught himself thinking as he got out of the car, but part of him actually resented feeling that way.
* * *
—
It was nearly ten when he walked into his apartment. The lights were dimmed low and the living room was awash in a warm orange glow. He found Ottavia curled up on the sofa, reading a magazine, wrapped in a light caftan they had bought in Morocco a few years before. She lifted her eyes from the page.
“Hi, darling, have you had something to eat yet? There’s food for you in the fridge.”
“I’m fine, thank you—I grabbed sushi with a client. How was your day?”
“Great. We almost finished installing the show. I’m exhausted, but it’s going to look amazing. You should pop in when you have a moment.”
“I will. Maybe tomorrow at lunchtime?”
“Yes. I’d like to hear what you think before we’re done.”
“Sure. Where is Ilaria?”
“In her room, studying. Tomorrow she has that big math test.”
He leaned over her and kissed her lightly on the head. Her skin had a fresh, lemony smell.
Ilaria was sitting at her desk, her hair tied in a loose bun. His studious, earnest daughter. Sandro sat on her bed, across from her. There was a half-opened book, facedown, on the bedspread. He peeked at the title: Pride and Prejudice.
“Ciao, Papà.”
Ilaria brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead and placed it behind her ear. She had lost weight lately, her elbows and knees bony, her legs like sticks. Too much time indoors, too much homework, Sandro thought. He hardly ever came into her room, which was tidy and strangely unadorned for that of a twelve-year-old. No posters or photos on the wall, only a couple of botanical prints that Ottavia had bought when they had first moved in, no nail polish, perfumes or beauty products on the shelf, no clothes or socks strewn on the floor. He made a mental note to spend more time with her, take her to the opera, to museums and movies. Quality time with his daughter was essential; soon she’d turn into a teenager and he and Ottavia would probably lose sight of her.