Giulio Colombo had made his decision the night before. He’d thought it over for a long time, he’d never been someone who operated on impulse. Ever since his daughter had returned home from the summer colony, he’d never made the slightest reference to the letters they’d exchanged, the things that she had only been able to confide in him from a great distance, how she’d opened her heart to him. They truly resembled each other, he and Enrica.
Leaving aside their physical appearance—both tall, wearing glasses for their nearsightedness, dark-complexioned with open, luminous smiles—they were also both shy and retiring, disinclined to express themselves outwardly. Only rarely had he seen his daughter cry, since even as a girl she was more mature and sensitive than the other little girls, at once commonsense and reflective. Father and daughter understood each other profoundly, with no need to talk. In fact, they intuited each other. All they needed was a gesture or a sigh, and their state of mind was mutual.
The other children resembled Maria, enthusiastic and strong-willed, always ready to weep or burst out laughing, always engaged in endless, loud arguments that only rarely came to any satisfactory conclusion. Not Enrica. Enrica smiled, said nothing, and did what she thought right to do. Not easy, or opportune: right. Even when it redounded to her own disadvantage. Even at the cost of her own unhappiness.
Knowing his daughter’s state of mind because it was sure to be a mirror image of his own, he’d never subscribed to his wife’s obsessive worries. At nearly twenty-five, Enrica was still alone, not married much less engaged, but Giulio felt certain that when the moment came, when she met the right person, that person would recognize her. And in the meantime, he would be there to protect her and love her, to smile at her silently as a proper papa should.
Then there had been the letters, with the revelation that his daughter had in fact met the right person. Only this person had not taken any of those traditional steps that one would have reasonably expected of him: there had been no invitation to go out with some discreet chaperone, no presentation at the family home, no engagement. He’d done nothing more than watch her from a distance in the dark, his cat eyes glittering in silence. Enrica, in keeping with her nature, had waited. Until she had come to the conclusion that actually that man didn’t want her, at which point she had made up her mind to leave.
In her letters, Enrica, his small, fragile, determined Enrica, had confessed to him just how her heart was bleeding.
And in the face of that sorrow, Giulio had made a decision of which he never would have thought himself capable. He had approached the man. He had to understand. He had to check this out in person.
He and the man hadn’t spoken much. The cavalier was an old-fashioned liberal, and he was aware that times were changing faster than he could possibly hope to keep up with. He didn’t belong to the generation that would have no difficulties with approaching a young man and asking whether he was interested in the daughter who had fallen in love with him. But he was still a father, and he couldn’t stand to watch his Enrica consume herself in pain without lifting a finger to help her.
In some strange way, he’d liked the man. He was quiet, he engaged in no pointless flattery, but you could see that he wasn’t lying.
But Cavalier Colombo must have misjudged his daughter’s state of mind, because without warning Enrica had suddenly begun limiting her letters to the ones she sent to their home address, in which she tersely informed them of her state of health and what she was doing with her time. Then she had started talking about the German.
She was cautious, brief, and rather remote; there was nothing in her accounts that betrayed any particular emotional engagement. But, Maria had decreed, if a young woman Enrica’s age speaks of a man so often, then there must be something going on. For certain.
Giulio hadn’t replied. Knowing her as he did, he doubted Enrica was capable of changing so suddenly the object of her interest. But if she wasn’t talking to him, it meant that she didn’t need him. And that was enough for him. For that matter, he thought, it wasn’t necessarily the case that Maria was wrong, perhaps what his daughter needed most was to break free of an infatuation that no one else knew about but him, and establish a concrete relationship that would bring her happiness. Happiness: Giulio wanted nothing else for her.
And yet, there was something. Something that he’d sensed in a half sigh, in a gaze lost in the empty air for a fraction of a second, in the way she held her shoulders when she thought no one was looking.
There was something. And Giulio, the night before, had screwed up his courage.
He’d been surprised to learn that talking with Enrica was even harder for him than it had been to approach that man back in July. Back then he had been fighting against himself for the sake of his little girl’s peace of mind, and he had easily won out against the natural shyness that was baked deep into his personality. Now, however, it seemed to him that he was forcing himself, practically, into her inner sanctum, her very right to privacy, and that he was trying to make her talk about something that could hurt her deeply. The thought that it was he, who loved her so tenderly, who was causing her this discomfort was practically intolerable.
And yet it had seemed necessary. Even the slightest possibility that she was about to make a choice she’d regret for the rest of her life justified his interference. He’d made up his mind and asked her to join him the next day at the shop. Talking to her at home was virtually unthinkable, with all those ravenous ears ready to pick off any and every variation in the domestic temperature.
But now that she was there before him, with that tranquil and good-tempered gaze of hers, he felt like a rude and high-handed gendarme about to grill an innocent suspect. He gestured to one of the salesgirls to come attend the Baroness Raspigliosi and listen to her lucubrations, and to the baroness he murmured his excuses, then moved off, followed by the old woman’s malevolent curiosity. She would stomp off ungraciously, he knew, making no secret of her disappointment at having been abandoned just as she set into the two hours of examination, hemming and hawing, during which she’d study every item of haberdashery in the shop, only to decide, in the end, to purchase nothing, as was her custom; but his daughter’s peace of mind was far more important than a pair of gloves.
He locked arms with Enrica and they headed off toward the Caffè Gambrinus.
XVII
The café was packed with people but the oldest waiter, who had known the Cavalier Colombo for years, immediately found him a table.
The gentle September air encouraged people to stay outside, so there were no tables free and people were even standing waiting, leaning against the low railing smoking and chatting or reading the morning paper. The piano room, on the other hand, was a little less crowded, and Giulio preferred to be out of the way of indiscreet eyes and ears anyway, when it was time to talk with Enrica.
The young woman hardly seemed to be wondering why her father had asked her to meet him. Actually, her heart was in complete tumult, because she had no idea what answer she would give when the inevitable questions arrived. She was inured to the interrogations of her mother, and had been since she was a little girl: she knew perfectly well how to steer the subject toward less treacherous terrain, and each time Maria’s impetuosity ran helplessly up against the brick wall that Enrica was quite adept at erecting. But all her father needed to do was take one look into her eyes, so similar to his own that they seemed to reflect his thoughts. She had never been able to tell Giulio a lie. But then, he had never before asked her anything she was reluctant to tell him.
This was the first time.
The cavalier ordered an espresso for himself and a glass of rosolio liqueur for his daughter. Then he started to study her, without speaking.
Enrica shifted uneasily in her chair.
“Papa, I should apologize to you for the letters I sent you this summer.”
Colombo was surprised.
“Apologize? But why? Were they not sincere, by any chance?”
“No, no, they were sincere, absolutely. It’s just that . . . I had no right to burden you with my problems, that’s all. There was nothing you could have done about it, and I was so selfish to confess it all to you from a distance, without looking you in the eye.”
Giulio objected.
“You shouldn’t say such a thing, even in jest. I’m your father. This is what fathers are supposed to do, carry whatever weight they can, to lighten the load on their children. But that’s not why I wanted to see you.”
Now it was Enrica’s turn to be surprised.
“No? But then . . . ”
“Listen to me, sweetheart. You mustn’t . . . Your mother, you see, is only interested in your well-being. She’s a woman who sometimes . . . doesn’t look into the depths of things, that’s true, but she adores you, and she’d throw herself into the flames for all of you, for her children.”
Enrica’s face lit up.
“Certainly, Papa, of course. It’s just that sometimes she can be a little . . . overhasty. It seems as if she’s trying to manipulate the lives of other people, and that’s something I . . . ”
“ . . . you can’t accept, of course, I understand. But as for your letters, you wrote what was in your heart. And when there’s something in your heart, then you have to listen to it. You know that I never finished high school.”
Enrica looked away for a moment.
“Yes, Papa. You had to work, because Grandpa had died.”
“That’s right, your grandfather had died. But I could have insisted on it, maybe I could have gone on working while I studied. Hard work never frightened me. And I was a good student. I would have studied philosophy, you know that I’m interested in everything that has to do with politics. Maybe I could have secured a position as a professor. I would have enjoyed that.”
The young woman was astonished. It had never occurred to her that her father might have had aspirations to anything but running the family business.
“But . . . the store? I thought you really liked your work. That’s what you always told us.”
Giulio shook his head, with a hint of melancholy.
“No. Not all that much, to tell the truth. And it wasn’t bringing in all that much money, actually, you know? Your grandfather never understood how to modernize, how to keep up with the times. We were practically bankrupt. I could just let the business go, my mother and my sister could have gotten by with the money from the sale of the store, money I would have gladly let them have, and they had a place to live. And I could have followed my dreams.”
Enrica didn’t know what to think.
“Then why didn’t you do it? Why didn’t you continue your studies?”
Her father sat raptly watching two children who were playing with a hoop in the street, outside the plate-glass window. He was reviewing his memories.
“Because I had met your mother and fallen in love with her. And she wouldn’t have waited for me to complete my studies and find a job. She wanted to get married and she wanted to have children. You know what she’s like.”
The young woman felt a stab of pity to her heart.
“What a shame, Papa. How sad, having to give up your dreams for . . . ”
Colombo suddenly turned and stared at her.
“No. No. The error, the shame, as you say, would have been to give up what you have in your heart in the name of some other convenience. I long carried within me the doubt that I might have made a mistake; an oppressive doubt, massive as a mountain. Everything in me, my sentiments, my very nature, my pride made me hate this work, the duty to pretend courtesy and reverence to ignorant folk who have nothing but money. But do you know when that doubt dissolved into thin air? Do you know when I knew that I had been right?”
Enrica felt her eyes growing damp behind her lenses.
“No, Papa,” she murmured, “when?”
Colombo’s voice cracked ever so slightly. Outside, one of the boys tried to talk the other one into giving him the hoop.
“When you were born. When they brought me to you and put you in my arms. And every time I look at you, the way I’m looking at you now, every single time I look at you or your brothers and sister, I thank God I made the right choice. No philosophy, no classroom full of students, nothing could have given me more joy than what I’m feeling in this very instant.”
Enrica would never have guessed how much love there was in the heart of that shy, quiet man, who could never express his affection more openly than a fleeting pat on her head. She struggled to choke back her tears, in silence.
When she felt the vise grip of emotion that encircled her throat begin to relax, she whispered: “But why are you telling me these things, Papa? Why?”
Giulio coughed softly in his turn, to dispel his own emotions.
“The reason I’m telling you this, my sweetheart, is that I don’t want you to muffle the voice of your own heart. This German . . . this man you wrote us about. Your mother tells me that he may come to our home to ask my permission to see you. I want to know, I have to know what you desire. What you truly desire, I mean. If you need any help from me, have no fear. No one will be any the wiser. I don’t look favorably on the policies of Germany, any more than I do where Italy is concerned, for that matter. I could easily justify a refusal of his request with your mother on that basis, and I’m certainly not happy at the idea that someday someone might take my little girl far away from me. If you wish, I could . . . ”
Impulsively, Enrica laid her hand on Giulio’s arm.
“Papa, please. Don’t say another word. I know that I can count on you, we resemble each other so closely that there are times when I hear in your words the very echo of my own thoughts. But he, the man I wrote you about, doesn’t want me. I’ve even been forward with him, and you know how far that is from my very nature. I made it perfectly clear to him how I feel, what I feel about him. He doesn’t want me, otherwise he would have put himself forward. There’s no timidity, there’s no bashfulness that could justify his silence. While Manfred . . . he is a good, kind man, who has had a full life and understands the importance of sentiment. I feel that I could find a genuine equilibrium with him, true serenity. And I could make Mamma happy.”
Giulio objected.
“There, you see? That’s the last thing you should be worrying about. What any of us wants doesn’t matter, the only thing that matters is what you want. It’s your own life that you’re talking about, don’t you understand that? If you love another man, you can’t even begin to imagine . . . ”
Enrica interrupted him, her voice suddenly hard.
“Then I don’t love him enough, Papa. I will never allow anyone to toy with my emotions. He knows, and I’m sure of that. He knows how I feel about him. If he hasn’t reached out to me, it means he doesn’t care for me. And that’s that.
“There’s one thing I know for sure. I want a husband in my life, a home, and children. I was born to be a mother, I feel it every time I tutor a child, every time I take my little nephew in my arms. And if the man I would have chosen, that I had chosen, doesn’t want me, then I’ll live my life all the same.”
She had started to cry. The tears now flowed unhindered down her cheeks, dripping over her tightly clenched lips. Giulio felt his heart dissolve.
He leaned forward over the café table to wipe her face with his handkerchief.
“It’s all right, Papa’s sweetheart. Don’t cry. It’s all right. But remember this: as long as I’m around, you never have to do something you don’t want to. If you did, then that would mean I’ve failed in my duties as a father. You should always and only do what you want. Do you promise me that?”
Enrica hesitated, then nodded her head yes, though she was incapable of speaking. They sat there, staring each other in the eyes, tenderness for tenderness
, love for love.
Outside, one of the boys ran away with the hoop. And the other one chased him into the sunlight.
XVIII
The two little drowned boys were lying, gray, with their arms wrapped around each other, in the sunlight, just a few yards away from the entrance to the yacht club. Ricciardi stood motionless a short distance away, hands in his pockets, as he looked at them. He seemed to be looking out to sea, the water that stretched, placidly glittering, all the way to the horizon.
It always had a strange effect on him, going down to the sea. He was, after all, born and raised in the mountains of Cilento, and he’d grown up around pragmatic people accustomed to battling nature for a living. He was therefore unfailingly stunned by that expanse, always the same and always changing, in perennial movement but apparently motionless, an unsettling bridge to the rest of the unknown world, and itself unknown, both in its depths and on its surfaces. His introspective soul perceived its terrible beauty, and was caught in its meshes. But he couldn’t become sufficiently comfortable with the sea to feel true affection for it, even after all these years.
Then, of course, there were the dead, he thought as he continued to stare at the two trembling cadavers locked in the embrace that had killed them. The dead, who dotted the coastline. The dead, fishermen in the winter and bathers and beachgoers in the summer, whose maleficent emotions were borne in to shore by the undertow, as if instead of dozens or hundreds of yards out they had died right there, on the rocks of the shoals. The dead, translucent and faded by rain or sunshine, who whispered their terrible refrains for an audience of just one spectator.
One of them was a little older, the other couldn’t have been more than seven or eight. The littler one was bluish, his mouth half-open, out of which issued a bubble of white foam that looked like some horrible fungus, his eyes half-closed; and he kept murmuring: Come, come get me, I can’t stay afloat. The other one, the hairs on his body standing straight up and goose bumps all over him, his eyes rolling up in their sockets and his lips and tongue dead black, kept repeating: Don’t pull me down, stop pulling me down.
Glass Souls Page 12
