The Complete Short Stories of Natalia Ginzburg Read online

  “I like your brother,” said Giulietta as she got undressed. Aldo was observing her with hostility. As she lay down next to him, he said to her, “Can you please stop making those silly comments, I mean, all that talk of kicking. It’s not true, when have I ever kicked you? You silly girl! And in front of Ferruccio …” “But, let’s be honest, your Ferruccio isn’t a child anymore, and there are certain things that he should be aware of now.” “Yes, yes, but it’s none of your business. Leave it to me … there’s plenty of time. It’s none of your business.” They stopped talking: Aldo lay motionless, contemplating the ceiling. “Anyway, it’ll be useful to have Ferruccio here; they’ll send more money from home.” He remembered having a horrible pair of red and violet striped pyjamas, which Giulietta had chosen for him at the market. He turned to look at Giulietta and found that she bore a curious resemblance to her mother, the little old hag in the rest home. “Are you annoyed with me?” she said in a sleepy voice, and he turned out the light.

  The Children

  THEY HAD ALWAYS BEEN AFRAID of her. Everything that belonged to her – her wooden-heeled babouches, the umbrella with a monkey’s head on the handle, the pink packet of peppermints which she kept on her bedside table – all of these things took on a strange and evil meaning in their eyes. In the living room, there was an album of old photographs which they often liked to look at. In these photographs their mother would appear holding them on her lap or sitting next to them on the carpet, joking and smiling. But when had this time been? They couldn’t remember. They thought back over their short lives but could only remember being told off and punished. When she told them off, their mother would say, in a despondent way: “You’ll be the death of me, I’m tired of you.” Her hands were dry and strong, and could hurt very much.

  Sometimes they would wonder if there were other children in the world who didn’t love their mother. They thought of their friends and characters from books they had read, but decided that they must be the only ones. They tried to invent a new mother; they wanted her to be plump and blonde like the mother of their little friends – the Oppenheims. She would be a fat lady who dressed in bright colours. She would know how to make puddings, tell stories, sing the song of La Cornacchia del Canadà;1 and in the evenings she would come and tuck them up in their small beds. They would have been happy with a mother like that. Instead they lived the frenetic and difficult life of children who go to school, and whose existence is really quite similar to the grown ups’. In the mornings they would wake early, wash in cold water, and then drink a cup of bitter and runny cocoa. Emilia, who had plaits and didn’t know how to comb her hair by herself, had to go to her mother’s room to have a fine comb pulled through her hair. Their school was far away, but they weren’t allowed to take the tram. If they brought home a ‘ten out of ten’ in their homework diary their mother would give them fifty centesimi as a reward. They had to put this in their money box so that in the future they could buy new pen nibs and exercise books. ‘I don’t want them to get into the habit of throwing their money away on sweets, do I?’ their mother would say. Their father would agree.

  The children saw very little of their father: he was always away on business, and from one time to the next he would forget which form they were in at school. When he caressed them he would yawn at the same time, and that is how they knew that he had four gold teeth. They would have liked to go out with him, to eat meringues or go to the cinema, but he didn’t like going out. Instead he would pad around the house in his plushy slippers and idle about in the kitchen, where he chatted with the cook, lifting the lids off the saucepans and giving his advice. The children realized quite soon that he too was afraid of their mother; even a big man like him with his hairy hands and booming cough was afraid of their mother.

  They had dinner in their bathrobes because it was Saturday and every Saturday at seven o’clock they would have a bath. Their father was in London, and that very same day he had sent a postcard which had three cats in a basket on the front. They ate in silence, their pea soup was too salty, and Giorgio was about to say so, until Emilia poked his elbow so that he would keep quiet. Their mother would only have started shrieking at the cook, and then at them. They were so difficult to please, whereas she, when she was a little girl …

  That evening their mother was wearing a strange dress which they had never seen before – it was the colour of red wine; she was wearing lipstick as well. After supper their Uncle Bindi came round for coffee.

  Uncle Bindi was a younger brother of their father; he wasn’t married but he had a little red car which he said was his wife. More than anything else he liked funny things, going to the cinema, and also dogs. He was tall and thin, dressed in grey flannels, and he never wore a waistcoat, not even in winter. “Signora, allow me to kiss your hand,” he said, bowing to their mother. “Signorina, allow me to kiss your little hand,” he said, bowing to Emilia. He then sat at the table and finished the artichokes that Giorgio had left on his plate; then he snapped off the stalks from the cherries which had come from the fruit bowl, showing that he knew how to tie them with his tongue. Their mother laughed and laughed. Nobody made her laugh like Uncle Bindi did. “My dear, the colour of your dress reminds me of a tie that I once had … what a tie it was … I’ve left my little girl friend tonight to come and see you. Yes, my little girl friend, she’s a pretty little thing, but nothing compares to an evening with you. You’ve been an angel to call me tonight. Let’s go out on the terrace; perhaps you’ll let me taste your cherry brandy. Giorgio, my good little fellow, would you like a little sip too?” “Go straight to bed children,” said their mother, “and mind that you don’t leave the light on.”

  They slept together in the same room at the end of the corridor; the wash basin was hidden behind a folding screen. On the folding screen there was a scene of swallows and storks chasing each other across a clear green sky. “Emilia,” Giorgio asked, “can you help me untie my shoes?” Emilia came out from behind the folding screen in her little skirt and sat down next to him. “You always make knots that you can’t undo! Right, there you are. Now you can undo the button that I can’t reach at the bottom of my back.”

  The window opened onto the garden, and the children looked out. Down in the garden lit up by the moon, the grass was dotted with daisies and the magnolia tree had two large white flowers on it. The nude child on the fountain was revealing his little stone behind to the sky. “It would be nice to have a swing in between those two plane trees down there,” said Emilia. “The Oppenheims have got one, haven’t they? I would like them to come and play in our garden one day.” “We must invite them Emilia, we must. Then we can play the game where you put ivy on your head like that time at their house, do you remember? We must tell mamma to call and invite them.” “She won’t want to call them, you know, or she’ll just offer them a snack of coffee, milk, and bread and butter when they don’t like coffee and milk.” They got undressed and turned off the light; they lay down on little beds which were set well apart – after Emilia’s first communion they had been separated – and put their hands together to say a short prayer.

  “Emilia, I’m not tired, I can’t sleep and she’s sent us to bed earlier than usual. Uncle Bindi will get bored all alone with her, and perhaps he’d be glad to see us. Emilia, Emilia, shall we go out on the terrace to see him? He’d laugh and be happy, and mamma wouldn’t think of telling us off.” “You’re crazy! Close your eyes and go to sleep.”

  “Emilia, I want to say good night to Uncle Bindi and tell him something that I forgot to say to him; it won’t take a minute. I want to tell him that this morning at school I was given a prize; I really must tell him.” “Mamma will tell us off.”

  “No, she won’t tell us off, she’s always in a good mood when Uncle Bindi is around. Don’t you remember that day, it was Christmas day and you dropped a glass and she didn’t say anything? Uncle Bindi will laugh so much when he sees us come in our nightshirts.” Stumbling barefoot, they crossed the
dark corridor: the light was turned off in the kitchen as well and the servants had already gone up to the floor above. Giggling uncontrollably the children stopped in front of the velvet screen which separated the corridor from the hallway. In the hallway the light was still on. “Do you really want to go already Bindi?” said their mother. “Yes I must go. Goodbye you lovely creature.” The children moved the curtain back a little, and looked on without being seen. Now I’ll jump out and shout ‘Boo!’ thought Giorgio all of a sudden.

  Uncle Bindi put on his raincoat and tied a chequered scarf around his neck. “I’ll jump out and shout ‘Boo!’ … Emilia, I’m going to jump out and shout ‘Boo!’” whispered Giorgio, but Emilia held him back: “Wait.” “Goodbye you lovely creature,” Uncle Bindi repeated. Their mother was standing in front of him. All of a sudden he took her by the wrists and pulled her towards him, laughing. They watched him kiss her, and caress her arms; against their mother’s slender arms his hands looked monstrously large and red. “A little kiss … another little kiss come on, what’s wrong with that?” Their mother had sunk onto his chest; she was pale and they heard her breathing hard. “No Bindi, no,” she begged, “go now, please go now.” Their uncle moved away from her and opened the door; “Very well, goodbye then”; he smiled and tipped his hat. They heard him run down the stairs, and hurry across the gravel on the garden. Their mother closed the door and wiped her brow. She looked pale and her dress was creased. “Mamma,” called Giorgio gently. Their mother gave a start and was suddenly roused. “Mamma.” Two white ghosts danced towards her. “Oh my goodness, children, children!” she said breathlessly. Her mouth tightened. “Go to bed, go to bed at once,” she said in an anguished voice. She pushed them down the corridor and closed the door so that they were all together in their room. “Go straight to bed, do you understand?” She picked up the clothes the children had left on the floor, folded them up and piled them on a seat. “No more, I can’t take any more from you. This is too much – I don’t want you in the house any more. I shall send you away to boarding school; when it comes to this, boarding school is the only thing left. I shall tell your father as soon as he comes home. Enough is enough, I’ve been too soft and now you’ve exhausted me and I don’t want anything more to do with you.” The children looked at her bewildered; they had never seen her like this before. As she spoke she swallowed her words, her lips quivered, and she beat her chest. “It’s too much, it’s too much. You’ve exhausted me, I’m being punished …”

  She turned off the light and went towards the window; the children curled up in silence under their sheets. They looked up through the corner of the window at the dark sky obscured by foliage. Everything seemed new to them in the room lit up by the moon; the swallows and storks on the folding screen, the clothes folded up on the chair. The silence was broken by a raucous sob; their mother was bent over the window sill crying. They called to her quietly, “Mamma.” “My God, children, children.” She threw herself down on Giorgio’s bed and buried her face in the pillow. “You’re little and you can’t understand … you’re little and can’t understand … it was just a joke. Emilia, children, I tell you it was all a joke. But you mustn’t speak to anybody about it. Not to papa, not to your grandma, and not to any of your friends at school. You mustn’t even speak about it to your Uncle Bindi. You mustn’t speak to anybody about tonight. Can I trust you? You’re big enough to know how to keep a secret now. Give me your word of honour. Uncle Bindi is a joker, you know that! He did it for a joke and I knew that.” She tried to smile, but her smile quickly turned into a grimace. “Come here both of you, my dear children. Come here, close to me. I don’t have anything but you, nothing else in the world. I won’t send you to boarding school, I want you to stay close to me. Tomorrow you don’t have to go to school, and we’ll spend the day together. You’ll see, it’ll be wonderful … but you mustn’t say anything to anybody.” She held them close to her, warming their bare feet in her hands. The children didn’t know what to say except, “Mamma, mamma.”

  Emilia timidly stroked her cheek with her finger. “Emilia, my beautiful child!” She allowed them to kiss her over and over, until they were tired out. They kissed her all over, on her burning, tear-stained face and all down her warm neck which smelled of face powder. They felt her dress, her hair, and the scarab beetle pin that intrigued them so much but which they had never dared to touch. They didn’t know what to say except, “Mamma, mamma.”

  “My children, my dear children! But now go to bed and try to sleep; it must be late now!” On her way out she turned again exclaiming, “it was all a joke!”

  They lay alone. “Emilia, don’t you think Signor Bonaventura2 looks just like Uncle Bindi?” He wasn’t sure if he really believed it, but wanted to talk about his uncle. “I don’t know, I can’t remember what Signor Bonaventura looks like; now leave me alone, I’m sleepy.”

  They closed their eyes. Tomorrow … the good Lord was preparing a beautiful day for them, full of delightful new things. In the morning, their mother would come and wake them, and would help them to wash, and would wash them with her special scented soap, just like when they had had the measles. Maybe she would even let them wear their white sailor outfits. In the afternoon they would go out, all three of them together holding hands, and who knew where they would go? Perhaps the cinema? Now their mother really had changed. She kissed them and called them ‘my dear children,’ and they were allowed to kiss her back and sit on her lap. Maybe one day they would even be allowed to invite the Oppenheims. They would order a cream cake, candied fruit, and many other things from the confectioner; they would lay the big table in the garden and it would be a beautiful day.

  What fun it would all be! Then one day, their mother would call them and say, ‘You’ve kept the promise very well; I see that you are two good children, and I want to reward you. Giorgio, I have brought this bicycle for you, and Emilia, for you a little gold watch. There, you see …’ They fell asleep, their hearts aching with happiness.

  The House by the Sea

  I HADN’T SEEN MY FRIEND Walter for many years. He used to write to me sometimes, but his childish letters were full of grammatical mistakes and said very little. I was surprised to learn that he had got married. When I knew him, he showed absolutely no interest in any of the women who happened to cross our paths at that time. His remarkable good looks stirred the hearts of many women, but he scorned and cruelly mocked those girls who fell for him. The other young men of our age didn’t have much time for him, and I was his only friend.

  About five years after his marriage I received a letter from him asking me to come and see him in a seaside town where he was now living with his wife and child. He vaguely mentioned a problem for which he needed my advice.

  At the time, I was living with my mother. I had a little job that didn’t pay very well, and, in order to make the trip, I asked my mother for money. She accused me of squandering and of having little regard for her, and we had a small argument. An uncle loaned me the money and I left. It was a hot day at the beginning of the summer. During the journey I thought about my friend Walter, but the joy of seeing him again was tainted by a vague uneasiness, a kind of trepidation or anxiety, which I had always felt when remembering him over the years. It was perhaps the fear that he could in some way disturb or destroy the life that I had been building, setting it alight with desires and memories. I was also curious about his wife. I couldn’t imagine what she would be like, or what sort of relationship they had.

  I arrived at midday at a stuffy, deserted station that had been freshly repainted. Walter was leaning against the wall waiting for me with his hands in his pockets. He hadn’t changed at all. He was wearing a pair of cotton trousers and a white shirt, with short sleeves and an open neck. On his broad, tanned face, a smile appeared, and he ambled over to meet me, proffering his hand. I had known he would greet me like that – no cheerful greetings or embrace – nonetheless, I felt uncomfortable. On the way home, as he carried my suitcase
which swung by his side, I began asking him about what sort of problems he was having, and without looking at me he said in a curt voice that they were family difficulties and that it had been Vilma, his wife, who had wanted him to send for me.

  We met Vilma as she was returning from a swim with their child. She was a tall woman, a little on the plump side, with dark hair which was still wet and grains of sand on her face. She was wearing a chequered sundress that exposed her knees and holding a woven straw hat and a red oilskin handbag. The child seemed very small to me, but they said he was four years old. He was a tiny little thing, very thin, pale, and pretty, with very curly blond hair that came down to his shoulders.

  They lived in a small two-storey villa in front of the beach. A room had been prepared for me on the upper floor; the view was not of the sea, but of the countryside. The whole house was dimly lit and filled with a pleasant smell of wood and peaches. We had lunch on the veranda; the rust-coloured curtains made of heavy cotton swayed in the wind and as they moved they revealed the sparkling blue sea, the sky, and the beach with huts painted in vibrant colours. During lunch the child refused to eat and his mother tried to spoon-feed him, prompting him wearily. Walter kept silent, crumbling his bread and staring straight in front of him. Then, all of a sudden, he became angry and said that the food was disgusting and badly cooked, and that had it been nicer the child would certainly have eaten it. Vilma made no response, other than to sigh and lower her head. The child turned from one to the other with fear in his eyes.

  “Family squabbles,” Walter said to me once we were alone. “When people don’t get along any more it only takes the slightest thing. In any case, there are more important problems now. She seems to have fallen in love.” I asked whom with, and he replied vaguely that he was an artist. “A musician,” he said with an unpleasant mocking smile.