The Penguin Book of Italian Short Stories

by Jhumpa Lahiri

  She had sewn Toby a ruff made out of Scottish silk, a kind of Spanish golilla. ‘Adorable,’ people would say, stopping to admire and stroke him. She would never have guessed that those compliments were really a pretext for erotic adventure. She was out of that game, she no longer existed. She had been surprised when the young photographer asked her to pose on that rustic bench (‘Just you, please, something for me to remember you by, Miss’). And then she understood: the honour of becoming a stranger’s souvenir was the sum of her fate. She’d picked up the puppy and consented meekly to the request. At least in the photograph, she reasoned bittersweetly, the little Maltese dog would be hers forever. She sat down, hugged him to her chest and stared at the trees – the golden leaves, the sun’s rays at the very tops of the pines – with an almost religious devotion so as not to forget anything about this already memorable moment. The puppy was not all that mattered to her just then; she sensed that she had arrived at a unique moment of reckoning with herself, a reckoning with the ‘Miss’ who was about to sign away her future. She seemed to have inadvertently prepared for this ceremony: gone were the usual delicate colours, replaced by wisely appropriate dress, a dark suit trimmed with silk ribbon, almost a guarantee of professional seriousness. Her great mass of hair, however, was gathered beneath a cherry-red velvet turban, the one provocation she had permitted herself. Legs crossed and leaning slightly forward, she holds in her gloved hands the white Maltese, his mug hiding her neck. A disenchanted, slightly ironic smile, barely visible in the impending twilight, wanders across her face and says no to youth. Her lips thin, but do not part to reveal her teeth. From the depths of her wide eyes rises an ominous darkness that hides her emptiness, stills her sadness. ‘A masterpiece,’ exclaims the photographer. But she had stood up, saying one photo was enough.

  Copies of the photograph, including the one she was looking at, were delivered to her just after the worst had happened, adding to her childish sorrow over parting with the puppy. Having dodged it so many times, the lightning bolt of extreme renunciation had finally struck and was now suffocating her. After that final elusive squeeze of her hand (‘You’re a clever girl, you’ll get married’), he had turned his back on her, walked among the crowd, retreated into the distance. She felt she couldn’t move, but somehow did, heading very slowly in the opposite direction. Finally, shattered to pieces, she sobbed openly in the streets, shamelessly, eventually entering a church gauchely lit with Christmas candles. In a merciful corner there, she realized to her horror that twenty-three years were few, that many still needed to pass for her to arrive at the end of an average human life – the life that she must live, alone, with dignity and courage, her only redemption. She didn’t pray for death, but prayed, for pity’s sake, that the time she had left would pass swiftly.

  She gradually learned how to ride the waves of her days, as if she had a chronic, but not fatal, illness, her lack of confidence conditioning her thoughts, her studies, her work. Now and again, she would look at the photograph, and one day she made a discovery: indeed, that melancholic damsel really was a beautiful young woman. But this wasn’t the issue; that image actually represented the quintessentially eternal ‘Miss’ – a substitute teacher, later a proper teacher, but always defined by that diminutive label that straddled pathetic and charming, and as she grew older, was even a little ridiculous. Even now, she stubbornly clung to this label – devoid of a first and last name – that society had branded her with. Her memories, secretly stored away (and woe to that sentimental colleague who mentioned them), kept her in a state of permanent adolescence.

  Sometimes when she comes early to class and the room’s still empty, she leans her forehead against the window. The street the high school is on leads to a piazza where He – she refuses to name him – once lived. Blushing, she remembers the one time she’d entered that rented room dressed in blue and white and he’d said nervously: ‘You intimidate me.’ In the tiny space of that messy room, and in half an hour of costly spontaneity, the future that awaited her had been born and died. ‘Good day, Miss,’ one of the eighteen-year-old numbskulls greets her, the first of thirty high-school students who will enter the classroom. Today Petrarch, tomorrow Tacitus, her duties. She, who for years had contented herself with any crumb he left her, and for which she paid dearly, would not die from a lack of love. But the deprivation leads to a terrible serenity. Proudly, making fun of herself, the ‘Miss’ attends a dance or two, proof that certain dangers don’t exist for her. And, in fact, whenever she dances she never looks at her partner, never says a word, but she likes the rhythm, even if she would have preferred to dance alone, inventing steps and moves. As for her reputation for being arrogant, she explains that it’s really only shyness, but knows that her timidity is actually an intolerance for banal conversation and clumsy compliments. She often dreams of being forced to marry someone – she had no idea whom – and they meet at the altar where she is unable to dislodge a ‘no’ that strangles her. When she then awakens with a jolt, she is delighted that her freedom is still secure. If anyone hints that she is in love, she responds disdainfully and denies it completely: how could anyone possibly dare to take the place of Him, the one who had rejected her? This is more or less the reason for her outrage. Her heart shut down, she becomes a little quarrelsome and admits, annoyed, that she is attractive and turns morose when, in spite of herself, she is undermined by a spark of vanity. She is not one to accept a bourgeois marriage proposal whenever asked – such a nice young man and so in love. The word ‘Miss’ sits like a crown atop her lightly bronzed hair, and woe to anyone who dares touch it. In the meantime, as she trains for a harsh maturity, enough already with anonymous floral homages and silly notes hidden in the pages of borrowed books. Very soon she will be a respectable, old-fashioned old maid. She travels alone, goes to the theatre alone, overcomes ignoble and wretched fears when, going home, she realizes she is being followed. She has no female friends.

  How was anyone to know, however, that the thing everyone called ‘life’ had yet to even begin for her, that destiny would turn everything upside-down and thrust her into the hands, the clenched hands, of that unforgettable Friend? Happiness is terrible, it leaves you naked, defenceless, anonymous. One Easter morning, the ‘Miss’ was walking among the columns of the Roman forum, dissolving in the morning air, disintegrating under the sun, amidst the sound of church bells; neither of them offered an explanation or recrimination, the naturalness of this new encounter assuring a perfect congruity that years of ambiguity – oh, how futile! – never succeeded in corroding. Younger at twenty-five than she had been at eighteen, the young woman, who had been so covetous of her own unhappiness, now reveals absolutely no trace or sign of her former self, her wide smile showing bright white teeth, all her pores exuding a steadily ecstatic amazement. Perhaps the Friend says, How beautiful you are, but she doesn’t react. She has no interest in comparing herself to any former images of herself now that she is being offered – but she was a little afraid of it – a new name, a new situation, new tools that she didn’t know how to use. On her horizon everything is too ‘ready’, too planned out in advance. It is not easy to get used to being a ‘young wife’; it embarrasses her, makes her ashamed. She feels she no longer has any words or actions of her own, that her joyous triumph actually conceals a trap that every so often paralyses her, despite the enchantment of living in the Beloved’s home, sitting at his table, certain that every evening, sooner or later, delightedly, she would hear the sound of his key turning in the lock, the sound of his approaching footsteps. A boundless sweetness suffocates her, clouds her eyes and ears, tatters her will. Passivity is dangerous: her life now like that of a sated and playful animal, she’s aware of the hidden perils of swathes of free time, her susceptibility to caprice. The acts of love, once nettlesome and shocking, from one day to the next are not only validated, but virtually imposed by a new code. And it greatly disturbs her. Something, then, has changed: for better or for worse? For the better, for the bet
ter, she swiftly concludes, but instinctively she hesitates. In fact, the imposition of certain rights seems to her a vile hoax.

  Unemployed, she throws herself into the subordinate work of secretarial duties. This is a misguided fallback plan since order, precision, patient study eludes her nature. Her husband – indeed yes! her husband – laughs good-naturedly, corrects the oversights, and she, recognizing her incompetence, hates herself, retreats, proposes that she do even more menial tasks such as typing, filling out forms. What does it matter? Even hidden in a corner she would be happy. It’s nice that each day is the same as the next, and abandoning herself to their passing, it’s no longer necessary to use her brain. Not that her brain can just stop working: but it wanders aimlessly or ruminates on frivolities, oddities, petty rebellions. Her will oscillates, swinging like a little monkey from tree to tree. Deciding whether or not to cut her long hair – one of her more attractive features – is a profound event. Leaping into the abyss, she returns to practising the piano; the generous Listener is surprised, tells her she’s not bad, gives his approval. Suddenly a black cloud appears, the worst of all threats – eventually he’s sure to get tired of a companion with no interests or problems. She’s too docile, always happy, a silly kitten who romps about his feet.

  No use deluding herself. Happiness has extinguished her intelligence and confines her to the role of scheming scrounger. The betrayed ‘Miss’ seeks revenge. It’s impossible to return to her former solitude, reignite her initiative, her appetite for a challenge, her steadfast ambition to prove her overlooked worth. Who have I become? A wife who doesn’t argue, attentive to every glance of fierce disapproval, to the shifting moods of a fickle largesse. Basking in the renunciation of decision-making, she no longer knows how to say ‘I like that’ or ‘I don’t like that’; she’s even unlearned how to choose, her clothes falling on to her as if by magic. Unexpected trips transform her into a small suitcase convenient to the traveller. He knows what is worth seeing and, in his hands, the world opens up, there’s nothing to do but listen and applaud. And thus France, England, Holland, the sombre Germany pass by. But suddenly, unexpectedly, something snaps: No, the young wife will not continue on to Berlin. ‘I’ve had enough,’ she declares in Munich, as she leaves the Alte Pinakothek and departs alone for Brenner. A troubled night of desolation and remorse. In Verona under a chilly sun, the ‘Miss’ reappears in front of the bronze door of the Basilica of San Zeno and before the Pisanello fresco in the church of Sant’Anastasia, pale, sad, ghostly, a shadow of herself.

  It was an acrimonious trip. The sensation of having betrayed something precious plagued her, but the momentary solitude allowed her to recover some of the clarity that happiness had muddied. ‘He who hesitates is lost,’ some idiot once said, but actually this was now her situation. Going forward, she could live on her illusions – now that she knows that, from the start, the problems she faced had already been resolved. It was always a question of take it or leave it. So I fooled myself and took the wrong path. But what was my path? A deep dive into my childhood and adolescence and all would be revealed. But she didn’t want to risk concluding that if love was by now indispensable, it was insufficient, indeed, unjustifiable. Banish the dreams depleted by doubt, excited by small successes and sometimes by the certainty her goal would be achieved – these ambitions were no longer for her. But at least some autonomous occupation, something she devised for herself, which would salvage her self-esteem, save her from laziness – she contemplated this as the train carried her home, vaguely irritated by, but also vulnerable to the stares she received; alas, the habitual experience of a ‘pretty woman’. A job, a job. The most modest, the most humble, as long as it was outside the home and in no way reliant on the fact that she didn’t need to earn a living because others ‘kept’ her; she was ‘a kept woman’. Unfortunately, this banal, clichéd definition of who she was today fit her like a glove.

  Resuming normal life, she had to hide her determination to get a job no matter what. This was no easy task, since her existence was filled with her obligations to love: the happy and sated animal reappeared. But every day, the clock struck zero. The abeyance painful, she reviewed her possibilities, acerbically and brutally rejecting all opportunities intellectual in nature. She wondered if she shouldn’t humble herself and look for manual labour, as many women did in order to support themselves. It was useless to even consider sewing or needlework – she was entirely incapable – but as a young girl she had learned to knit. She wouldn’t mind making little sweaters for newborns, booties, scarves, blankets, but there was still the problem of how she would sell these items. Idly wandering through the narrow streets in the centre of the city, she had noticed a small haberdasher’s shop displaying exactly these sorts of garments. She passed by the shop repeatedly, and finally, with embarrassment, offered to bring the haberdasher a first sample of her work. She bought pink and blue yarn, then closed herself in her bedroom with the balls of wool and her knitting needles. She knit furiously, terrified that someone would surprise her and think … In fact, the maid, seeing her occupied by that unusual activity, had smiled and winked. Obviously, she thought her employer was expecting. Of course, it was a legitimate supposition and not at all out of line, and yet, even expressed by that simple girl, it made her seethe with resentment. She did not want to lie so, instead, firmly denied it with a harsh glare.

  The little jacket was soon finished and she considered it a masterpiece, but as soon as she wrapped it up in tissue paper, her heart sank, feeling she had forfeited the last shred of herself: her past as a rigorous intellectual shamed her, condemned as she now was to this petty deception that was also badly paid. Passing her own work off as that of a poor young girl, she had tried to sell it to the haberdasher, a bitter woman who, after sizing her up, refused to do business with her, as if refusing to give alms to a beggar. Having left the awful shop, all she wanted was to get rid of the bundle, which she couldn’t even look at, as if it were stolen goods. Her attempt to inadvertently drop the bundle failed; a boy picked it up and gave it back to her with a smile, the delicate pink wool visible through the now ripped tissue paper. A pew in an empty church finally offered a solution, but while in the act she was overcome by a profound longing, as if actually abandoning an infant. She had given no thought to maternity, and even as a little girl declared herself aunt, not mother, to her dolls. It had never occurred to her to discuss with her husband the legality of not procreating. She had intuited that paternity would have disrupted his work, and this was enough to silence her scruples, if she’d had any. But she didn’t have any. She liked children, but her attitude towards them was one of a respectful lack of interest.

  Having rid herself of her craving for manual labour, she headed towards what she believed would be the definitive loss of her personality, an irrelevant loss, after all, since every day the lightning-like brilliance of her Partner enriched her and simultaneously obliterated her. For her own amusement, and, in a certain sense, out of a pathetic celebratory pleasure, she started to visit museums and famous churches again, to go regularly to libraries where as a girl she had spent entire days drunk from reading obscure literature and delving into random research. The renewed pleasure of engaging in these activities soon included an active desire to pay secret homage to the great scholar whose name she shared. Scrutinizing old texts, and occasionally finding signs – pencil scribbles in the margins – of her own work as a student, she was stunned by some of her own interpretations. Raising her eyes from the page, she became lost in evoking quasi-optical images of mad warriors, wily monks, plundered cities, dense virgin forests. The historians, the medieval poets, the ugly mugs of Barbarians and Huns fascinated her, but she understood that regrettably none of this was of any use, all of it just a fairy tale she would recount to no one.

  Although she was reluctant to engage in relationships of pure convenience, her husband eventually introduced her into the society of artists, writers and poets. Among them she was determined by all
to be the beautiful and aloof Mrs X. Whenever in this illustrious company, she was careful not to mention her youthful achievements. But what, in fact, did she actually have to boast about? Certainly not her university studies, or her work as a substitute teacher in high schools, and even less about the few articles she’d published in academic journals. The wives she met were young and vivacious, with some knowledge of literature, art and above all music. None of them had ever worked, but they knew a lot of people and were able to converse with ease. These women did not like her much, but seemed so seductive and intrepid that, almost defensively, she tried her best to improve her appearance, applying light make-up in the hope of not entirely disappearing among all those beauties. The probability was high that her husband could fall for a woman more attractive, more ‘interesting’ than she. Should that happen, there was nothing to do but resign herself to it without thinking of the future. Jealousy is a luxury allowed only to a woman once adored. Her jealousy flashed like lightning, silent and quick. When she was a teenager, she had been obsessed by a classmate who seemed a prodigy of gracefulness. She was sure that the boy she idolized was also smitten with this girl, and he was right to be. In some sense, by proxy, she loved her too. She would never have dared to compare herself with that alabaster face, that smooth coal-black hair, that tall, thin person with an undulating gait. But I am more intelligent, she consoled herself, though she was shattered. The danger passed, and perhaps it had never existed, but now, anticipating that sooner or later something more serious would happen, she tried to reassure herself by studying the effects her own attractiveness had on men. She was incapable of flirting, flattering, acting childishly, but instead became irritated, ironic, caustic. And yet, sometimes she could imagine herself being ‘served’ by a melancholy, yet respectful, dutiful knight. Didn’t her disconsolate early love give her the right to some sweetness? Wasn’t it fair that having given so much without receiving, she should now receive without giving?