Happiness, as Such

by Natalia Ginzburg

  You and I had fun together. I don’t know why it was fun, but then who ever knows why one person bores you and another one doesn’t. There were times when it seemed like you were really fed up and you didn’t want to talk to me. I’d ask you something and instead of answering you’d just grunt, you could do it without even moving your lips. When I miss you now, I just make that sound and you appear before me. You were really fed up the whole time toward the end. Maybe I was being clingy. But I didn’t want anything from you. I just wanted your company. Honestly, I never wanted you to marry me. Just the idea of us getting married makes me laugh, and gives me chills. If I ever had that idea in my head, I banished it totally.

  You really hurt my feelings that one time you arrived for our date, and you were out of breath and pale. You told me you’d run over a nun. Later, when we were back at the studio you told me she was dead. You buried your head in the pillow and I comforted you. The next morning you wouldn’t talk to me and when I touched your hair you made that throat grunt and pulled away. You have an ugly side, but that’s not why I don’t want to marry you. I don’t want to marry you because you hurt me that time and a lot of other times too, and I want to get married to a man who won’t hurt me because I’m already good at hurting myself. I want to marry a man that I can look up to.

  I’m sending you a hug and I’ll write again.

  Mara

  12

  January 6, 1971

  Dear Michele,

  How wonderful to talk to you on the phone. I could hear your voice so clearly. Osvaldo is such a nice person, coming to get me and letting me call you from his house. And that way he could say hello too.

  I was so pleased to hear about your walks in the woods with all those dogs. I can imagine you now, hiking in the woods. I’m glad I remembered to send your boots because the grass must be wet and muddy. I have woods around here too, if you climb high enough up the hill, and every so often Matilde proposes a walk up there, but the mere idea of seeing her Tyrolese scarf blowing in the wind ahead of me makes me lose any desire to take a walk. Even when I’m alone I never feel like going up into the woods and the twins never want to come walking with me either. I end up looking at the woods from the window and it seems like it’s a faraway place. Maybe a person needs to be peaceful, generally happy, to enjoy walking in the countryside. I hope to be a person like that one day and hope you already are.

  But I still don’t understand what you think you’re doing. Osvaldo says I should leave you be. You’re learning English and you’re passing the time doing housework, which, according to him, is always useful. I do want to know though when you’re planning on coming back.

  Osvaldo and I went over to the studio to collect your paintings. That friend of yours, Ray, was there. He’s living in the workshop now, as you know. Angelica’s friend Sonia was there too, the one with the black ponytail. There were other people. Maybe a dozen. They were sitting on your bed and on the floor. The door was open and we walked right in but no one moved, they just kept doing what they were doing, which is to say, nothing. Sonia helped us carry the paintings to the car. No one else lifted a finger. As soon as I got home I hung up all of your paintings. I don’t think they’re the least bit beautiful, but then in a way, it’s better that they aren’t any good, since you’ve stopped painting. Osvaldo thinks you’ve stopped forever. Who knows what you’ll do next. Osvaldo says I shouldn’t worry about it. You’ll do something.

  It was very depressing to see the studio again. I got the sense it depressed Osvaldo to be there too. The bed was out and there were the blankets that I’d bought you. Why should I care about these blankets. But I had told Angelica to take them for herself, it’s not like she’s drowning in nice bedding.

  Matilde and I spent Christmas alone. The twins went skiing at Campo Imperatore. Angelica and Oreste were with their friends, the Bettoias, who I don’t know. Viola and Elio were in the country with his family. Nonetheless, Matilde and I prepared a sort of Christmas dinner, even if it was just the two of us eating alone in the kitchen. Cloti went home for the holiday and we didn’t think she’d ever come back because she took almost all of her clothes with her. Matilde made capon stuffed with raisins and chestnuts, and she made a bavarese too. So after dinner the kitchen was filled with dirty dishes, as our dishwasher is broken, and Matilde went to sleep, saying that the twins could wash the dishes when they came back. Matilde has these fantasies about the twins. I washed and dried the dishes. Osvaldo and his daughter Elisabetta appeared in the afternoon along with their dog. I offered them the leftover bavarese. The girl wouldn’t touch the bavarese and settled down to read the twins’ comic books. Osvaldo fixed the dishwasher. Just when they were about to leave Matilde emerged from her room and got angry because I hadn’t woken her. She said she’d fallen asleep out of pure boredom since no one ever comes visiting in this house. She insisted they stay for supper, and they did. And so there were more dishes to wash and the dishwasher broke again right away, flooding the kitchen floor. Against all expectations, Cloti reappeared the next day. She brought us a bushel of apples that Matilde has claimed as her own. She takes enormous bites out of these apples and claims that she should eat an apple every half hour for her health.

  Osvaldo comes by almost every evening. Matilde thinks he’s in love with me, but Matilde is a half-wit. I think it’s sheer inertia that brings him here, force of habit. In the beginning he was coming to listen to Matilde read from Polenta and Poison, but now, as God is merciful, that has ended. Matilde would read aloud in a deep, throaty voice and Osvaldo and I would sit there, cynical and jaded. Now Osvaldo has passed her along to an editor friend of Ada’s. I’ll cover the expenses. Matilde asked me to and I didn’t know how to refuse.

  I don’t understand your Osvaldo. He isn’t unpleasant, but he irks me. He sits here until midnight, leafing through magazines. We don’t talk much. Usually he’ll wait for me to start the conversation. I make some effort but we don’t have much in common. Back when there was Polenta and Poison to listen to, we slept, but that was a reason to sit together. Now I don’t see any reason to be sitting together. And yet I have to admit that I’m happy when he shows up. I’ve come to depend on it. When I see him at the door I feel a strange sense of relief mixed with irritation.

  Your mother

  Ti abbraccio

  I asked Osvaldo if that girl Mara Pastorelli was in the studio when we went to get your paintings. He said she wasn’t. They aren’t her friends, they run in different circles. I sent her money through Angelica. She and Osvaldo thought we should send money because she’s not doing well, and there’s that poor baby. Now they got her a job with Ada’s editor friend. This Ada is always so helpful.

  13

  January 8, 1971

  Dear Michele,

  Yesterday was the reading of your father’s will. Lillino had been holding onto it. Your father wrote it right after he got sick. I knew nothing about it. Me, Lillino, Matilde, Angelica, Elio, and Viola were all in the lawyer’s office. Oreste didn’t come because he had a work conflict at the newspaper.

  Your father left you a series of paintings, the ones he did between 1945 and 1955, and the Via San Sebastianello house, and the tower. I get the impression your sisters are going to come out of this with much less than you. They’ll get those properties near Spoleto, many of which have been sold off, but there are some left. Matilde and Cecilia are going to get a piece of furniture, that baroque, Piemonte credenza. Matilde immediately observed that Cecilia gets the better end of that deal because Matilde wouldn’t know what to do with a credenza. Can you just imagine. What joy will half-blind, decrepit Cecilia get from a credenza?

  As for the Via San Sebastianello house, you’ll need to let us know what you want to do about it: sell it, rent it, or live there. The architect has already begun work on the tower, so that’s all set. There are huge expenses associated with the projects your father contracted. Lillino says tha
t he and I should go to the tower to see what’s already been done. Lillino has never seen the tower but says that there’s no way it was a good investment because you can’t get there by car unless you build a road into the rock. The only way to get there now is via a steep footpath along the cliff. I have little desire to go rock climbing with Lillino.

  I wish you would come here and decide. I can’t make these decisions for you. How could I decide anything if I have no idea where and how you want to live.

  Your mother

  14

  January 12, 1971

  Dear Mamma,

  Thank you for your letters. I’m writing quickly because I’m leaving Sussex and heading to Leeds with a girl I met. She has a job teaching design at a school in Leeds. I think I’ll be able to get work washing dishes and servicing the boiler at the school. I’ve become very proficient at servicing boilers and washing dishes.

  I’m leaving on good terms with the nice couple I live with here, the professor and his wife. He’s a little queer, but just a little. He taught me to play the clarinet.

  Leeds isn’t much of a city. I saw some postcards. The girl I’m going with isn’t much either. She’s a little boring, but not stupid. I’m going with her because I’ve had enough of things here.

  I’m asking you to please send me some money in Leeds as soon as possible. I still don’t know exactly where I’ll be staying, but you could send the money in the care of this girl’s mother. I’m putting her address below. And can you also do me the favor of sending Kant’s Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics to the same address too. It’s in the studio. I can find it here, but it’s in English. They might have an Italian version in the library, but I can’t stand libraries. Thank you.

  I can’t come back now. To be honest, I don’t want to come back. I could come back if I wanted to, but don’t. Why don’t you go live in the San Sebastianello house since from your letters you sound bored and depressed in the country.

  You decide about the tower. I don’t think I’ll ever go regardless of the season.

  If you don’t want to move to San Sebastianello, maybe you can let Mara Pastorelli, the girl, my friend, live there. She’s the girl you sent money to. She is living in an apartment on Via dei Prefetti, but it might be uncomfortable there. The San Sebastianello house is very comfortable. I have good memories from there.

  Congratulate Matilde for me on her novel, Polenta and Wine, which I understand is about to be published. Hug the twins and everyone else for me.

  Michele

  Write me c/o Mrs. Thomas, 52 Bedford Road, Leeds

  15

  January 15, 1971

  Dear Michele,

  Something very weird happened and I feel like I need to tell you about it right away. Yesterday me and Fabio had sex. Fabio Colarosa, the editor. He’s the pelican. You have no idea how much he looks like a pelican. He’s Ada’s boyfriend. I stole him from Ada.

  He invited me to the restaurant. Then he brought me home because it was a holiday and the office was closed for the afternoon. He said he wanted to come up and meet the baby. Ada had told him about the baby. I explained to him that the baby wasn’t home, he was with the lady. He said he wanted to see my house. I was embarrassed about the sewer smell that’s always there. And when I went to work that morning I had left everything out. But he was insistent so I let him come up. He sat on the only chair, the one with the torn cushion. I made him a Nescafé. I served it to him in the pink plastic mug that my friend at the boardinghouse had given me. I don’t have any other mugs. I always mean to go to the store to get some more, but never have the time. After he drank his coffee he starting pacing, back and forth, and wrinkling his nose. I asked him if he could smell the stench. He said he couldn’t. He said he has a big nose but can’t smell much. I had made the bed and was sitting on it, and he sat down next to me and that’s how we ended up having sex. I was really shocked afterward. But he fell asleep. I watched his big nose sleeping. I said, “Jesus Christ, I’m in bed with the pelican.”

  It was five and I had to go pick up the baby. He woke up while I was dressing. He said he wanted to stay for a while longer. I left and came back with the baby. He was still there, lying in the bed, he poked his nose out of the sheets to look at the baby and said he was handsome. Then he lay back down. I prepared the baby’s bottle and was happy to have him there because I don’t like to be alone when I mix the milk. I should be used to it by now because I’m almost always alone, but I’m not used to it. I had a veal chop for dinner, I cooked it and we each ate half. While we were eating I told him that he looked exactly like a pelican. He said he’d heard that before. He didn’t remember who’d told him that. I said, “Maybe it was Ada,” I could tell he didn’t really want to talk about Ada, but I did. I didn’t tell him that I think she’s a fool. I told him that I thought she was a little insufferable. He started laughing. I asked him if he’d had enough to eat. He said pelicans don’t eat much. He stayed the whole night. He got dressed and left in the morning. Then we saw each other back at the office. He was sitting there with his Dictaphone. He winked at me when I came in. But I didn’t say anything. He was formal with me. I figured he wanted to pretend nothing had happened at the office. He didn’t invite me out to the restaurant. Ada picked him up. Now I’m hungry because I’ve only had half a veal chop, two cappuccinos, and a sandwich since last night. Now I’m going to go down and buy some ham.

  I don’t know when he’ll be back. He didn’t tell me when he’d be back. I have this feeling I’m in love. I don’t feel sorry for him the way I sometimes feel sorry for you. I envy him. I envy the dreamy way he has, he’s strange and mysterious. You are sometimes dreamy and strange and mysterious too, but all of your secrets seem like a children’s game. He seems to have real secrets, secrets he’ll never tell anyone, complicated and strange secrets. I envy him. Because I don’t even have half a secret.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex. Not since the baby was born. Partly it’s that no one’s come along. Partly it’s that I haven’t been interested. The Japanese man is queer. I wouldn’t dream of having sex with Osvaldo. He might be queer too and I’m not attracted to him, I don’t know.

  Angelica is going to pick me up and take me to see a friend of hers who has a stroller. It’s stored under the stairs and she doesn’t need it anymore. Angelica says we’ll have to clean it with Lysol.

  I don’t know if I’ll tell Angelica about the pelican. I don’t know her well and what if she gets the impression that I just go to bed with the first guy I see. But maybe I will tell her because I’m dying to tell her. I’ll tell Osvaldo as soon as I see him for sure. I stole Ada’s pelican.

  Ti abbraccio.

  Mara

  Angelica arrived. We went to get the stroller. It’s a very good stroller. I told Angelica everything while we were walking.

  Angelica gave me your new address. She told me about Leeds, the city you’ve moved to, how it’s gray and very boring. What the hell are you going to do in Leeds? Angelica says that you moved to Leeds to be with a girl. I was jealous right away of this girl. I don’t care about you at all, I just have feelings of friendship toward you, but still I’m jealous of all your girls.

  16

  Angelica woke up. It was Sunday. The baby was staying with friends for two days. Oreste was in Orvieto. She walked barefoot around the house, opening shutters. It was a damp, sunny morning. The scent from the pastry shop in the square drifted up. She found her green terry slippers in the kitchen and slid them onto her feet. She found her white shower cap on the typewriter in the dining room and stuffed her hair in it. After her shower, she put on a red bathrobe, damp because Oreste had used it the night before. She made tea. She sat in the kitchen drinking tea and reading yesterday’s newspaper. She pulled off the shower cap and her hair fell out over her shoulders. She went to get dressed. She looked in her drawer for stockings but they all had runs. She dug
out a pair that had a hole in the heel, but no runs. She pulled on a pair of boots. While she was buckling the boots it occurred to her that she didn’t love Oreste anymore. The idea that he would be in Orvieto for the whole day gave her a deep sense of freedom. And he didn’t love her anymore. She thought he was in love with the girl who wrote the women’s page at the newspaper. Then she thought that probably none of this was true. She pulled on a blue sweater and scraped at a white spot on her skirt with her fingernail. It was flour and milk. She had made apple fritters the night before with Oreste and the Bettoias. While they were eating the fritters she put her head on Oreste’s shoulder and he hugged her for moment. Then he shrugged her off, saying he was hot. He took off his jacket and scolded her for putting the thermostat up too high. The Bettoias were hot too. The fritters were greasy. She stood in front of the mirror and pulled back her hair to study her long, pale, serious face.

  The doorbell rang. It was Viola. She was wearing a new coat, black with a leopard trim. She had a leopard beret on her head. Her black hair hung loose over her shoulders, straight and shiny. Her eyes were brown with blue flecks, her nose small and delicate. Her mouth was small and her upper lip poked out over big white teeth. She took off her jacket and placed it carefully on the dresser in the entryway. Under the coat she was wearing a red scoop-neck sweater. Angelica poured tea. Viola wrapped her hands around the mug because she was cold. She asked Angelica why the heat was turned down so low.

  She’d come over to say that she thought the will was wrong. Mostly she didn’t think it was fair that their father had left that tower to Michele. She and Elio had been thinking the tower would be a lovely place for the sisters to go in the summertime. Michele wasn’t going to do anything with the tower. Angelica said that she hadn’t seen the tower but knew that they would need to spend a lot of money she didn’t have in order to make it habitable. Anyway the tower belonged to Michele. “Fool,” said Viola. “We just need to sell some of that land in Spoleto to get the money for the tower.” She asked for a cracker, because she had skipped breakfast. Angelica didn’t have any crackers but she had some broken breadsticks in a plastic bag. Viola started eating the breadsticks, dunking them in tea. She thought she might be pregnant, she was ten days late. That morning she felt strangely slow. “You don’t feel anything in the first days,” said Angelica. “I’ll take the rabbit test tomorrow,” said Viola. She calculated that the baby would be born in early August. “The worst month to have baby,” she said. “I’ll die from the heat. It’ll be awful.” In two years they would be able to all vacation together in the tower. Elio would collect mussels from the rocks. He loved to collect mussels. They would eat marvelous mussel soup together. They would get a grill to cook steak outside. Oreste and Elio could go spear fishing. Then they could have grouper on the grill instead of steak. “Oreste has never been spear fishing,” said Angelica. The phone rang, and Angelica went to answer. It was Osvaldo. He told her that Ray had been hit on the head during a protest and was injured. They were at the Polyclinic, could she come.