The Lying Life of Adults. Elena Ferrante

Vittoria, who instead of displaying the aggressive sides of her character was, during those visits, good-natured. Above all, I noticed that brother, sisters, sister- and brothers-in-law, nieces and nephews treated her tenderly, as one does an unfortunate person one loves dearly. Uncle Nicola especially was kind to her, he remembered that she liked strawberry gelato and as soon as he discovered that I liked it, too, he sent one of his children to buy some for everyone. When we left, he kissed me on the forehead and said:

      “Luckily you’ve got nothing of your father in you.”

      I was learning to hide from my parents what was happening to me. Or, rather, I perfected my method of lying by telling the truth. Naturally I didn’t do it lightly, it pained me. When I was at home and heard them moving about the rooms with the familiar footsteps that I loved, when we had breakfast together, had lunch, dinner, my love for them prevailed, I was always on the point of crying: Papa, Mamma, you’re right, Vittoria hates you, she’s vengeful, she wants to take me away from you to hurt you, hold on to me, forbid me to see her. But as soon as they started with their hypercorrect sentences, with those controlled tones of theirs, as if truly every word concealed others, truer, from which they excluded me, I secretly called Vittoria, I made dates.

      By now only my mother questioned me politely about what happened.

      “Where did you go?”

      “To Uncle Nicola’s house, he says hello to you.”

      “How did he seem to you?”

      “A little dumb.”

      “Don’t talk like that about your uncle.”

      “He’s always laughing for no reason.”

      “Yes, I remember he does that.”

      “He’s not at all like Papa, not even a little.”

      “It’s true.”