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 theatre or the cinema with friends, always the same ones. But more often I watch television.'
'Ah, you've bought a television, 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 neighbours of mine come in and we watch it together. And often I watch it alone. I like the television: it's better than the cinema: 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 such a thing for years and years. I'm making a cardigan.'
'And after the television, what d'you do then?'
'I go to bed. What d'you expect me to do?'
'Oh well, you might read a book, for instance.'
'Yes, I do read, in order to send myself to sleep. At the moment, for example, I'm reading a quite 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.'
All at once I fell silent, with a sense of satiety, of futility. I might, I reflected, go on questioning my mother for hours and still I should 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. Then 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 quite 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 on my side, but I couldn't find anything to say. Luckily Rita, at that moment, handed me a dish containing a very elaborate pudding which I pretended to admire. 'What a wonderful pudding!' I said.
'It used to be your favourite.'
I helped myself; and was aware that Rita held back at some little distance from the table. I did not quite understand whether she was doing this from aversion or from that special kind of coquettishness which simulates aversion. My mother, who had not touched the pudding, gazed at me fixedly and implacably the whole time I was eating it. Finally she made a sign to Rita which I did not understand. The girl went out and a moment later reappeared with a bucket in which was plunged a bottle of
'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 theatre or the cinema with friends, always the same ones. But more often I watch television.'
'Ah, you've bought a television, 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 neighbours of mine come in and we watch it together. And often I watch it alone. I like the television: it's better than the cinema: 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 such a thing for years and years. I'm making a cardigan.'
'And after the television, what d'you do then?'
'I go to bed. What d'you expect me to do?'
'Oh well, you might read a book, for instance.'
'Yes, I do read, in order to send myself to sleep. At the moment, for example, I'm reading a quite 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.'
All at once I fell silent, with a sense of satiety, of futility. I might, I reflected, go on questioning my mother for hours and still I should 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. Then 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 quite 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 on my side, but I couldn't find anything to say. Luckily Rita, at that moment, handed me a dish containing a very elaborate pudding which I pretended to admire. 'What a wonderful pudding!' I said.
'It used to be your favourite.'
I helped myself; and was aware that Rita held back at some little distance from the table. I did not quite understand whether she was doing this from aversion or from that special kind of coquettishness which simulates aversion. My mother, who had not touched the pudding, gazed at me fixedly and implacably the whole time I was eating it. Finally she made a sign to Rita which I did not understand. The girl went out and a moment later reappeared with a bucket in which was plunged a bottle of
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