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The following excerpt fromElena FerrantesThe Lying Life of Adultsspans the first seven chapters of the book.
Everythingthe spaces of Naples, the blue light of a frigid February, those wordsremained fixed.
*
The night my father made that statement he had just learned that I wasnt doing well in school.
It was something new.
You have to study.
Some things I remember and some I dont.
Study until you remember everything.
I studied until I was exhausted, but the results continued to be disappointing.
She didnt scold me, my parents never scolded me.
Then my mother went into the kitchen to make dinner, and meanwhile my father came home.
Here someone might object: maybe youre exaggerating, your father didnt say, literally, Giovanna is ugly.
Its true, it wasnt in his nature to utter such brutal words.
But I was going through a period of feeling very fragile.
I knew almost nothing about her.
Not the revulsion and fear that she in person could have provoked in meI had no memory of that.
What frightened me was my parents revulsion and fear.
Was it possible, then, that without any warning I should discover that I was getting her face?
*
I waited for my mother to speak, but her reaction didnt console me.
She merely offered a weak, laconic: what are you talking about, of course she isnt.
Afterward I went back to pretending to study, while they settled in front of the television.
My suffering wouldnt end or even diminish.
Why had my father made that statement?
Why had my mother not forcefully contradicted it?
I was in despair all night.
I knew those albums by heart.
I lingered in particular on the wedding pictures.
So I moved on to the box and after many attempts managed to get it open.
I emptied the contents onto the bed: all the pictures were black and white.
I immediately understood that that very precise rectangle was a job that he had done diligently and secretly.
For quite a while I sat there not knowing what to do.
I soon realized that only the white of the paper appeared.
I felt anxious and stopped.
He was in profile, his gaze was happy, his teeth were even and very white.
But the smile, the happiness werent directed toward anyone.
I focused on that image for a long time.
Next to the dark patch appeared a bright white lamppost with well-defined outlines.
And then there were the shadows, long shadows, one of them cast by an evidently female body.
I waited a moment or two and then started again.
I worked lightly, hearing my breathing in the silence of the house.
*
So, considering them reliable witnesses, I questioned them cautiously a couple of times.
I wasnt in a good mood.
For example Ida asked, pointing to my shoes:
Are they new?
No, Ive had them forever.
I dont remember them.
Whats wrong with them.
If you noticed them now, it means thatnowsomethings wrong.
Are my legs too thin?
Whats wrong with this girl tonight?
Such nice hair, what is it, a sorghum broom?
I responded darkly: Im not plump, or green, or red, or black.
He stared at me in bewilderment, smiled, spoke to his daughters.
Why is Giovanna so grim tonight?
Grim isnt an insult, its the manifestation of a state of mind.
You know what it means?
He again turned to his daughters, pretending to be despondent.
Ida, you tell her.
Ida said unwillingly: That you have a scowl on your face.
He says it to me, too.
There I asked Ida, without turning around:
Do I have a scowl on my face?
Do you think Im getting ugly?
They looked at each other, they answered almost simultaneously:
Not at all.
I realized that they were hesitant, Angela decided to speak:
A little, but not physically.
Physically youre pretty, Ida emphasized, only you look a little bit ugly because youre anxious.
Angela said, kissing me:
It happens to me, too.
When Im anxious I turn ugly, but then it goes away.
That connection between anxiety and ugliness unexpectedly consoled me.
I wanted to believe that, and I made an effort to have untroubled days.
I felt an increasing hostility toward everyone that was difficult to repress with false good humor.
But Angela and Ida werent me.
That was another time, the pleasure didnt seem like a nice game anymore.
Now I was all sweaty, I felt deformed.
My features were slight flaws that made me sad, touched me.
Poor you, I thought, how unlucky youve been.
So I began to react.
One Sunday morning I tried to improve myself with my mothers makeup.
Every face has its own makeup.
I want to be like you.
She was glad to do it, complimented me, and then made me up very carefully.
We spent some really lovely hours, joking, laughing with each other.
Usually she was quiet, self-possessed, but with meonly with meready to become a child again.
Eventually my father appeared, with his newspapers; he was happy to find us playing like that.
How pretty the two of you are, he said.
Absolutely, Ive never seen such gorgeous women.
And he shut himself in his room; on Sunday he read the papers and then studied.
She had noticed, then, that I had been rummaging through her things.
She realized that I had tried to scrape off the black of the marker.
I couldnt keep from crying, even though I fought back the tears with all my strength.
A picture of Aunt Vittoria?
*Per the authors request, an asterisk indicates where a passage has been removed from the original text.
Audio excerpted courtesy Penguin Random House Audio fromThe Lying Life of Adultsby Elena Ferrante, narrated by Marisa Tomei.
Copyright 2020 by Penguin Random House Audio.
