Read Online Listen to My Voice by Susanna Tamaro - Free Book Online
Authors: Susanna Tamaro
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weeks. I’ve asked around, and it seems he’s ill. By my reckoning, I’m at the end of my second month. The sweet euphoria is fading away more and more each day, replaced by fear and then anger. Is he really sick? Or has he perhaps guessed something and wants to take his time? I haven’t heard from him in a month. Maybe he’s really very sick, and it’s only me, wicked me, imagining anything different
.
24 May
Carla convened a special meeting of the group, because, she said, ‘If we can’t make decisions together, what the hell is sisterhood about?’ I was a bit embarrassed at first – it seemed more like a trial than a meeting – but then the ice broke and a bunch of lovely things were said. For a while there were two parties, pro and con, but as the discussion went on, their positions grew less rigid
.
P.’s the one who lit the fuse: ‘First of all, before we can make a decision, we have to know whether the child would be a girl or a boy. We don’t want to bring another enemy into the world.’ Some members of the group applauded and others didn’t
.
B.’s reply was swift: ‘In my opinion, if it’s a boy, that’s all the more reason to keep it. If we don’t start turning out a new kind of man, who else will?’
More applause, and then a chorus of shouts: ‘Yes, we’ll make them play with kitchen sets! We’ll make them coddle dolls! We’ll teach them that aggressiveness isn’t necessary! We’ll make them wear yellow and red, no blue anywhere! And no princes, just children!’
‘And let’s not forget,’ C. said in conclusion. ‘Let’s never forget nature, our teacher. Does a lioness ask her lion, “Sweetheart, do you want to keep this cub or not?” No! She has her cub and that’s it, and then all the lionesses raise their cubs together, like a real sisterhood. Women and their young: this is the law that governs the world – all the rest is idle chatter. Males are useful for only a few instants – after that, they’re no longer necessary.’ The room exploded in roars of approval
.
Waving my hand, I managed with some difficulty to make myself heard. I tried to tell the truth: ‘Comrades! I . . . I don’t know what to do . . . I don’t know if I want to keep the baby.’
A great silence descended on the room
.
‘Whatever the decision is, you’re the one who must make it. As your sisters, our only duty is to be here for you. If you want to keep it, we’ll do what lionesses do and raise it together. If you want to terminate, we’ll take care of that, too. L. and G. have taken a course and they’ve become very good.’
With these words, the official meeting broke up, and at last joints were extracted from handbags
.
5 June
I went to the faculty office and asked for news
.
‘Professor Ancona won’t begin lecturing again until next year,’ I was told
.
I had the presence of mind to say that I was one of his final year students and I absolutely had to talk to him. I might have blushed, however, because the secretary gave me a slightly suspicious look
.
‘Can’t you consult with his substitute?’
‘Oh, no . . .’
‘Then write him a letter and give it to us here in the office.’
The subsequent pages of the diary were covered with scratched-out sentences, probably repeated attempts to find the right words. Every now and then, through the thick scrawl of the felt-tipped pen, some fragment appeared like a fish escaped from a net.
Love
squirted out on one page, and
responsibility
on the next.
What to do? Keep b
. emerges, and under it, written three times in capital letters with many underlines:
DESPERATE, DESPERATE, DESPERATE
.
Before she wrote the letter, she must have made many foul copies – after all, he was a professor of philosophy, specialising in the philosophy of language. As I read those fragments, I got the impression that she was terrified of using the wrong words; every sentence betrayed the great insecurity with which it was written. She
.
24 May
Carla convened a special meeting of the group, because, she said, ‘If we can’t make decisions together, what the hell is sisterhood about?’ I was a bit embarrassed at first – it seemed more like a trial than a meeting – but then the ice broke and a bunch of lovely things were said. For a while there were two parties, pro and con, but as the discussion went on, their positions grew less rigid
.
P.’s the one who lit the fuse: ‘First of all, before we can make a decision, we have to know whether the child would be a girl or a boy. We don’t want to bring another enemy into the world.’ Some members of the group applauded and others didn’t
.
B.’s reply was swift: ‘In my opinion, if it’s a boy, that’s all the more reason to keep it. If we don’t start turning out a new kind of man, who else will?’
More applause, and then a chorus of shouts: ‘Yes, we’ll make them play with kitchen sets! We’ll make them coddle dolls! We’ll teach them that aggressiveness isn’t necessary! We’ll make them wear yellow and red, no blue anywhere! And no princes, just children!’
‘And let’s not forget,’ C. said in conclusion. ‘Let’s never forget nature, our teacher. Does a lioness ask her lion, “Sweetheart, do you want to keep this cub or not?” No! She has her cub and that’s it, and then all the lionesses raise their cubs together, like a real sisterhood. Women and their young: this is the law that governs the world – all the rest is idle chatter. Males are useful for only a few instants – after that, they’re no longer necessary.’ The room exploded in roars of approval
.
Waving my hand, I managed with some difficulty to make myself heard. I tried to tell the truth: ‘Comrades! I . . . I don’t know what to do . . . I don’t know if I want to keep the baby.’
A great silence descended on the room
.
‘Whatever the decision is, you’re the one who must make it. As your sisters, our only duty is to be here for you. If you want to keep it, we’ll do what lionesses do and raise it together. If you want to terminate, we’ll take care of that, too. L. and G. have taken a course and they’ve become very good.’
With these words, the official meeting broke up, and at last joints were extracted from handbags
.
5 June
I went to the faculty office and asked for news
.
‘Professor Ancona won’t begin lecturing again until next year,’ I was told
.
I had the presence of mind to say that I was one of his final year students and I absolutely had to talk to him. I might have blushed, however, because the secretary gave me a slightly suspicious look
.
‘Can’t you consult with his substitute?’
‘Oh, no . . .’
‘Then write him a letter and give it to us here in the office.’
The subsequent pages of the diary were covered with scratched-out sentences, probably repeated attempts to find the right words. Every now and then, through the thick scrawl of the felt-tipped pen, some fragment appeared like a fish escaped from a net.
Love
squirted out on one page, and
responsibility
on the next.
What to do? Keep b
. emerges, and under it, written three times in capital letters with many underlines:
DESPERATE, DESPERATE, DESPERATE
.
Before she wrote the letter, she must have made many foul copies – after all, he was a professor of philosophy, specialising in the philosophy of language. As I read those fragments, I got the impression that she was terrified of using the wrong words; every sentence betrayed the great insecurity with which it was written. She
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