Sometimes I organize bridge or canasta tournaments here, in the evening.”
“Ah, yes, I remember; charity tournaments, aren’t they? And for whose benefit?”
“The last one I had was for men blinded in the war.”
“Blinded in the war. We were all, in a way, blinded in the war, weren’t we?”
“Frankly, I don’t understand you. But if this is some sort of joke, it’s not in very good taste.”
“Never mind. And do you go and visit dressmakers?”
“Seeing that I don’t go about naked, of course I do. In fact I’m glad you reminded me, otherwise I should have forgotten; there’s Fanti’s dress show tomorrow.”
“Ah, Signora Fanti! The same as ever. Will she never die?”
“Poor thing, why should you want her to die? Not merely is she not dead, but she remembers you, from the time when you were a little boy and used to go with me to see her. She always asks me what you’re doing and how you are, and she hopes you’ll get married and send your wife to her.”
“Well, what do you do in the evening?”
“I have dinner. Often someone comes to dine with me. Sometimes I give a dinner party of six or eight people, and others come in after dinner. Or I go to the theater or the pictures with friends, always the same ones. But more often I watch television.”
“You’ve bought a television set, have you? I didn’t know.”
“Oh, hadn’t I told you? Yes, and I’ve had it arranged in a little sitting room upstairs. Some neighbors of mine come in and we watch it together. And often I watch it alone. I like television; it’s better than the films; there’s no need to leave the house, you can see it sitting in a comfortable armchair and you can do something else at the same time. Just imagine, I’ve taken to knitting again, after not doing any for years and years. I’m making a cardigan.”
“And after television, what then?”
“I go to bed. What do you expect me to do?”
“Oh well, you might read a book, for instance.”
“Yes, I do read, in order to put myself to sleep. At the moment I’m reading quite an interesting novel.”
“Who’s the author?”
“I don’t remember who the author is, it’s an American novel. About life in a small provincial town.”
“What’s its title?” I saw an expression of uncertainty come over her face, and hastily added: “I was forgetting, never in your life have you remembered either the name of the author or the title of the books you read. Isn’t that so?”
I had spoken in a tone of voice which was perhaps almost affectionate; anyhow, the fact of my having remembered something connected with her seemed to give her pleasure. She gave a modest laugh. “That’s not true,” she said. “But really, how can one be expected to remember some of these names? Besides, what matters to me is to pass the time, more than anything else. One author or another, it’s all the same to me.”
“Exactly. Do you still take camomile before you go to sleep?”
“How did you come to remember that? Yes, I do.”
“Do they bring it up to your room? Do they put it on the bedside table?”
“That’s right, on the bedside table.”
I fell silent, with a sense of satiety, of futility. I might, I reflected, go on questioning my mother for hours and still not come to a conclusion about anything: her life, and she herself, had by now attained a degree of utter meaninglessness which amounted, in the long run, to a sort of mystery at the same time both dull and impenetrable. My mother asked: “Is the cross-examination over, then? Or do you want to know what dreams I have while I am asleep?”
“I’m satisfied.”
There was silence again. Then my mother unexpectedly said: “Your mother is a woman who lives alone and who has no one but you and is happy that you are coming back to live with her.”
I realized, from the fact that she spoke of herself in the third person, that she was moved. I thought of saying something affectionate, but I couldn’t find
“Ah, yes, I remember; charity tournaments, aren’t they? And for whose benefit?”
“The last one I had was for men blinded in the war.”
“Blinded in the war. We were all, in a way, blinded in the war, weren’t we?”
“Frankly, I don’t understand you. But if this is some sort of joke, it’s not in very good taste.”
“Never mind. And do you go and visit dressmakers?”
“Seeing that I don’t go about naked, of course I do. In fact I’m glad you reminded me, otherwise I should have forgotten; there’s Fanti’s dress show tomorrow.”
“Ah, Signora Fanti! The same as ever. Will she never die?”
“Poor thing, why should you want her to die? Not merely is she not dead, but she remembers you, from the time when you were a little boy and used to go with me to see her. She always asks me what you’re doing and how you are, and she hopes you’ll get married and send your wife to her.”
“Well, what do you do in the evening?”
“I have dinner. Often someone comes to dine with me. Sometimes I give a dinner party of six or eight people, and others come in after dinner. Or I go to the theater or the pictures with friends, always the same ones. But more often I watch television.”
“You’ve bought a television set, have you? I didn’t know.”
“Oh, hadn’t I told you? Yes, and I’ve had it arranged in a little sitting room upstairs. Some neighbors of mine come in and we watch it together. And often I watch it alone. I like television; it’s better than the films; there’s no need to leave the house, you can see it sitting in a comfortable armchair and you can do something else at the same time. Just imagine, I’ve taken to knitting again, after not doing any for years and years. I’m making a cardigan.”
“And after television, what then?”
“I go to bed. What do you expect me to do?”
“Oh well, you might read a book, for instance.”
“Yes, I do read, in order to put myself to sleep. At the moment I’m reading quite an interesting novel.”
“Who’s the author?”
“I don’t remember who the author is, it’s an American novel. About life in a small provincial town.”
“What’s its title?” I saw an expression of uncertainty come over her face, and hastily added: “I was forgetting, never in your life have you remembered either the name of the author or the title of the books you read. Isn’t that so?”
I had spoken in a tone of voice which was perhaps almost affectionate; anyhow, the fact of my having remembered something connected with her seemed to give her pleasure. She gave a modest laugh. “That’s not true,” she said. “But really, how can one be expected to remember some of these names? Besides, what matters to me is to pass the time, more than anything else. One author or another, it’s all the same to me.”
“Exactly. Do you still take camomile before you go to sleep?”
“How did you come to remember that? Yes, I do.”
“Do they bring it up to your room? Do they put it on the bedside table?”
“That’s right, on the bedside table.”
I fell silent, with a sense of satiety, of futility. I might, I reflected, go on questioning my mother for hours and still not come to a conclusion about anything: her life, and she herself, had by now attained a degree of utter meaninglessness which amounted, in the long run, to a sort of mystery at the same time both dull and impenetrable. My mother asked: “Is the cross-examination over, then? Or do you want to know what dreams I have while I am asleep?”
“I’m satisfied.”
There was silence again. Then my mother unexpectedly said: “Your mother is a woman who lives alone and who has no one but you and is happy that you are coming back to live with her.”
I realized, from the fact that she spoke of herself in the third person, that she was moved. I thought of saying something affectionate, but I couldn’t find
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