A Girl Returned

Donatella Di Pietrantonio, Ann Goldstein

• Publisher: Europa Editions
• Year: 2019
• ISBN:
  9781609455293
• Topic: Literatur
• Subtopic: Literatur Allgemein

"One of the best Italian novels of the year" in a pitch-perfect rendering in English by Ann Goldstein, Elena Ferrante's translator ( Huffington Post, Italy). Winner of the Campiello Prize A 2019 Best Book of the Year ( The Washington Post Kirkus Reviews Dallas Morning News) Told with an immediacy and a rare expressive intensity that has earned it countless adoring readers and one of Italy's most prestigious literary prizes, A Girl Returned is a powerful novel rendered with sensitivity and verve by Ann Goldstein, translator of the works of Elena Ferrante. Set against the stark, beautiful landscape of Abruzzo in central Italy, this is a compelling story about mothers and daughters, about responsibility, siblings, and caregiving. Without warning or explanation, an unnamed thirteen-year-old girl is sent away from the family she has always thought of as hers to live with her birth family: a large, chaotic assortment of individuals whom she has never met and who seem anything but welcoming. Thus begins a new life, one of struggle, tension, and conflict, especially between the young girl and her mother. But in her relationship with Adriana and Vincenzo, two of her newly acquired siblings, she will find the strength to start again and to build a new and enduring sense of self. "An achingly beautiful book, and an utterly devastating one." — Minneapolis Star Tribune "Di Pietrantonio [has a] lively way with a phrase (the translator, Ann Goldstein, shows the same sensitivity she does with Elena Ferrante) [and] a fine instinct for detail." —The Washington Post "A gripping, deeply moving coming-of-age novel; immensely readable, beautifully written, and highly recommended." —Kirkus Reviews (starred review) "Captivating." — The Economist

A GIRL RETURNED

1.

I was thirteen, yet I didn’t know my other mother.
I struggled up the stairs to her apartment with an unwieldy suitcase and a bag of jumbled shoes. On the landing I was greeted by the smell of recent frying and a wait. The door wouldn’t open: someone was shaking it wordlessly on the inside and fussing with the lock. I watched a spider wriggle in the empty space, hanging at the end of its thread.

There was a metallic click, and a girl with loose braids that hadn’t been done for several days appeared. She was my sister, but I had never seen her. She opened the door wide so I could come in, keeping her sharp eyes on me. We looked like each other then, more than we do as adults.

2.

The woman who had conceived me didn’t get up from the chair. The child she held in her arms was sucking his thumb on one side of his mouth—maybe a tooth was coming in. Both of them looked at me, and he stopped his monotonous crying. I didn’t know I had such a little brother.

“You’re here,” she said. “Put down your things.”

I lowered my eyes to the smell of shoes that wafted from the bag if I moved it even slightly. From behind the closed door of the room at the back came a tense, sonorous snoring. The baby started whining again and turned to the breast, dripping saliva on the sweaty, faded cotton flowers.

“Why don’t you close the door?” the mother curtly asked the girl, who hadn’t moved.

“Aren’t the people who brought her coming up?” she objected, indicating me with her pointy chin.

My uncle, as I was supposed to learn to call him, entered just then, panting after the stairs. In the heat of the summer afternoon he was holding with two fingers the hanger of a new coat, my size.

“Your wife didn’t come?” my first mother asked, raising her voice to cover the wailing in her arms that grew louder and louder.

“She can’t get out of bed,” he answered, turning his head. “Yesterday I went to buy some things, for winter, too,” and he showed her the label bearing the name of the coat’s maker.

I moved toward the open window and put down the bags. In the distance a loud din, like rocks being unloaded from a truck.

The woman decided to offer the guest coffee; the smell, she said, would wake her husband. She moved from the bare dining room to the kitchen, after putting the child in the playpen to cry. He tried to pull himself up holding onto the netting, just next to a hole that had been crudely repaired with a tangle of string. When I approached, he cried louder, upset. His every-day sister lifted him out with an effort and put him down on the tile floor. He crawled toward the voices in the kitchen. Her dark look shifted from her brother to me, remaining low. It scorched the gilt buckles of my new shoes, moved up along the blue pleats of the dress, still rigid from the store. Behind her a fly buzzed in midair, now and then flinging itself at the wall, in search of a way out.

“Did that man get this dress for you, too?” she asked softly.

“He got it for me yesterday, just to come back here.”

“But what’s he to you?” she asked, curious.

“A distant uncle. I lived with him and his wife till today.”

“Then who is your mamma?” she asked, discouraged.

“I have two. One is your mother.”

“Sometimes she talked about it, about an older sister, but I don’t much believe her.”

Suddenly she grabbed the sleeve of my dress with eager fingers.

“Pretty soon it won’t fit you anymore. Next year you can hand it down to me, be careful you don’t ruin it.”

The father came out of the bedroom, shoeless, yawning, bare-chested. Noticing me as he followed the aroma of the coffee, he introduced himself.

“You’re here,” he said, like his wife.

3.

The words coming from the kitchen were few and muffled, the spoons were no longer tinkling. When I heard the sound of the chairs shifting, I was afraid; my throat tightened. My uncle came over to say goodbye, with a hurried pat on the cheek.

“Be good,” he said.

“I left a book in the car, I’m coming down to get it,” and I followed him down the stairs.

With the excuse of looking in the glove compartment, I got in the car. I closed the door and pressed the lock.

“What are you doing?” he asked, already in the driver’s seat.

“I’m going home with you, I won’t be any trouble. Mamma’s sick, she needs my help. I’m not staying here, I don’t know those people up there.”

“Let’s not start again, try to be reasonable. Your real parents are expecting you and they’ll love you. It’ll be fun to live in a house full of kids.” He breathed in my face the coffee he’d just drunk, mingled with the odor of his gums.

“I want to live in my house, with you. If I did something wrong tell me, and I won’t do it again. Don’t leave me here.”

“I’m sorry, but we can’t keep you anymore, we’ve already explained it. Now please stop this nonsense and get out,” he concluded, staring straight ahead at nothing. Under his beard, unshaved for several days, the muscles of his jaw were pulsing the way they sometimes did when he was about to get angry.

I disobeyed, continuing to resist. Then he punched the steering wheel and got out, intending to pull me out of the small space in front of the seat that I had squeezed myself into, trembling. He opened the door with the key and grabbed me by the arm; the shoulder seam of the dress he had bought me came unstitched in one place. In his grip I no longer recognized the hand of the taciturn father I’d lived with until that morning.

I remained on the asphalt with the tire marks in the big, empty square. The air smelled of burning rubber. When I raised my head, someone from the family that was mine against my will was looking down from the second-floor windows.

He returned half an hour later. I heard a knock and then his voice on the landing. I forgave him instantly and picked up my bags with a rush of joy, but when I reached the door his footsteps were already echoing at the bottom of the stairs. My sister was holding a container of vanilla ice cream, my favorite flavor. He had come for that, not to take me away. The others ate it, on that August afternoon in 1975.

4.

Toward evening the older boys came home: one greeted me with a whistle, another didn’t even notice me. They rushed into the kitchen, elbowing one another to grab places at the table, where the mother was serving dinner. The plates were filled amid splashes of sauce: only a spongy meatball in a little sauce reached my corner. It was colorless inside, made with stale bread and a few bits of meat. We ate bready meatballs with more bread dipped in the sauce to fill our stomachs. After a few days I would learn to compete for food and stay focused on my plate to defend it from aerial fork raids. But that night I lost the little that the mother’s hand had added to my scant ration.

My first parents didn’t recall until after dinner that there wasn’t a bed for me in the house.

“Tonight you can sleep with your sister, you’re both thin,” the father said. “Tomorrow we’ll see.”

“For us both to fit, we have to lie opposite, head to toe,” Adriana explained to me. “But we can wash our feet now,” she reassured me.

We soaked them in the same basin, and she spent a long time getting out the dirt between her toes.

“Look how black the water is,” she laughed. “That’s mine, yours were already clean.”

She dug up a pillow for me, and we went into the room without turning on the light: the boys were breathing as if asleep, and the sweat smell of adolescents was strong. We settled ourselves head to foot, whispering. The mattress, stuffed with sheep’s wool, was soft and shapeless from use, and I sank toward the center. It gave off the ammonia smell of pee, which saturated it, a new and repellent odor to me. The mosquitoes were looking for blood and I would have liked to cover myself with the sheet, but in her sleep Adriana had pulled it in the opposite direction.

A sudden jolt of her body—maybe she was dreaming of falling. Gently I moved her foot and leaned my cheek against the sole, fresh with cheap soap. For most of the night I stayed against the rough skin, moving whenever she moved her legs. With my fingers I felt the uneven edges of her broken nails. There were some clippers in my bag, in the morning I could give them to her.

The last quarter of the moon peeked in through the open window and traveled across it. The trail of stars remained, along with the minimum good fortune that the sky was clear of houses in that direction.

Tomorrow we’ll see, the father had said, but then he forgot. I didn’t ask him, nor did Adriana. Every night she lent me the sole of her foot to hold against my cheek. I had nothing else, in that darkness inhabited by breath.

5.

A wet warmth spread under my ribs and hip. I sat up with a start and touched between my legs: it was dry. Adriana shifted in the darkness, but continued to lie there. Wedged into the corner, she resumed or went on sleeping, as if she were used to it. After a while I lay down, too, making myself as small as I could. We were two bodies around the wet spot.

Slowly the odor vanished, rising only now and again. Near dawn, one of the boys, I couldn’t tell which, began moving rhythmically, faster and faster, for several minutes, moaning.

In the morning Adriana woke up and didn’t move, with her head on the pillow and her eyes open. Then she looked at me a moment, without saying anything. The mother came to call her with the child in her arms. She sniffed the air.

“You’ve wet yourself again, good girl. We make a bad show right away.”

“It wasn’t me,” Adriana answered, turning toward the wall.

“Yes, maybe it was your sister, with the upbringing she’s had. Hurry up, it’s already late,” and they went into the kitchen.

I wasn’t prepared to follow them, and then I lost the ability to move. I stood there, lacking even the courage to go to the bathroom. One brother sat on the bed, legs spread. Between yawns he weighed his bulging underpants with one hand. When he noticed me in the room, he began observing me, wrinkling his brow. He paused on my breasts, covered only by the T-shirt I was wearing in place of pajamas, in that heat. Instinctively I crossed my arms over the encumbrance that had only recently grown there, while sweat surfaced in my armpits.

“You slept here, too?” he asked in the voice of a man not yet adult.

I answered yes, embarrassed, while he continued to examine me shamelessly.

“You’re fifteen?”

“No, I’m not even fourteen.”

“But you look fifteen, maybe more. You developed fast,” he concluded.

“How old are you?” I asked, out of politeness.

“...