The nine months of her pregnancy flew by. My wife didn’t suffer much from morning sickness, she vomited discreetly, and it was with the same discretion, with gritted teeth, that she faced the labor and delivery. In a few short days she was on her feet again, pretending even to herself that not only had it not been painful, but that she was free of any aftereffects. And so I found Emma, my first daughter, in my arms—a purplish, finely-crafted little idol—not as if she’d been expelled by Nadia, who was obeying the impulses of her own body, but as if she’d really been brought, sweetly, by the stork.
I was incredibly proud. I’d turned thirty with flying colors, I liked my job, I was married and adored my wife, and I held in my arms the perfect reproduction of a living female body to whose creation I’d contributed as much as I possibly could. In addition, thanks to that essay of mine, for the past few months I was being invited, now and then, to give talks about the school system. But that wasn’t all. The very day that Emma turned six months old, I got a phone call from a reputable publisher. An emphatic woman’s voice, probably an efficient secretary who had no time to waste, said:
—My name is Tilde Pacini, may I transfer you to Professor Itrò?
I felt a blaze of astonishment in my chest, as if, while lighting the gas under the espresso pot one fine morning, I felt my pajamas catching on fire. Professor Itrò was the pedagogue who had written that fulsome elegy to my essay, and upon hearing his name I could barely contain myself: I emitted a guttural noise, a sort of wild, enthusiastic whoa. Tilde asked:
—I didn’t catch that, Sir. Sorry, are you busy?
—Not at all, please put him on, thanks.
Itrò, after asking a few questions about where I taught, and what, and since when, suggested that I transform my essay into a short book for a series that he edited.
—A hundred pages, he said.
—That’s impossible. It’s too much, I’ll never be able to write so many pages.
—You’ll end up writing three hundred that you’ll have to cut down.
—Can I think about it?
—For as long as you like.
This time I talked to Nadia about it right away, and at first she was happy—how wonderful she said, twice, her eyes looking tired—but then two minutes later she looked worried.
—How will we manage?
—What do you mean?
—How will we manage with Emma? I can’t keep asking my mother or my sister to help out.
—I’ll write at night, when she’s sleeping
—Will you need to do much away from home?
—I doubt it.
—Because I need to go down to Naples, otherwise the University gets upset.
—Of course.
I called Tilde Pacini, I told her yes, and two weeks later I received a contract to sign. I’d have had no problem signing it right away and sending it back to the publisher, but Nadia wanted to look it over carefully. She read it and reread it, scouring the codicils for signs that might threaten our life as a couple, and as a result our daughter, but all she learned was that the advance, by all definitions a pittance, was too low. I was grateful for her efforts, I kissed her all over and explained that for me that book was largely something to pass the time, to practice my penmanship. And so she finally let me sign it, even though she was like some Penelope who, in vain, warns Odysseus, should he meet the Sirens, to plug his ears with wax and think only of Telemachus’ future.
I wrote the book in very little time. It didn’t get over eighty pages. It was hard to manage Emma’s needs, Nadia who had to go down to Naples to see her professor, and my needing to get to the library for my research. But Nadia’s mother helped us out quite a bit, and Nadia sacrificed a bit more than she usually did, and I handed in my book exactly on time.
I took it over to the publisher myself, and on that occasion, I met Tilde. She was a woman in her forties with a lovely, intelligent face, the kind with very fine bone structure, small almond-shaped eyes under short blonde hair, and a long neck that rose up like a stalk from a dress of soft blue wool. I also saw Itrò, nearing his sixties, short, very thin, with watchful eyes, as if he were afraid of being ambushed every time he walked down a hallway, every time he opened a door. I went to lunch with both of them, to a nice restaurant by the Pantheon, and they treated me kindly. A week later that kindness had morphed into excitement. Tilde told me cheerfully on the phone: great news, that’s all I’ll say for now. Come by our offices tomorrow at four o’clock.
I headed over with nearly an hour to spare, and spent it wandering around the building, pleasantly agitated. Upon greeting me Itrò said that the book had surpassed his expectations, and that I’d done a fantastic job. Tilde—who, I discovered that day, was not a secretary but an editor—spoke in more modulated tones.
—You—she told me—really are honest. Honest and also naive, a precious combination that’s the sign of a free man.
—Thank you.
—We need to work on it a bit, nothing serious, the book’s all there.
—All right, whatever you say.
We worked on it for a couple of months. I went to the publishers twice a week, throwing Nadia’s finely tuned organization of time out of whack. But it was a necessary thwacking. Tilde double-checked all my statements, all my citations, even the rare statistics I incorporated here and there, and so I found quite a few discrepancies in my argument, and a few bibliographic errors, and even an embarrassing spelling mistake. I got to know her pretty well. She was smart but funny. We realized we had quite a few friends in common, people in their thirties and forties, all people committed to bettering the world and, as a result, bettering the school system. It turned out that I’d even had some connection with her husband, long ago. He remembered me. I didn’t remember him but said I did.
—Do you often make that sound? she asked once when, given that we were by then friends, we took a break together, sipping coffees in a squalid hallway at the publishing house.
—Which?
She made a silly sound, and for a few seconds she abruptly turned from the composed, reserved lady that she was into a lovely young girl who made funny faces.
—Whooa.
—No, I only did it that once.
—Please do it again.
—Whoa.
She tapped me lightly on the cheek.
—Yes, you really are a good person.
Itrò turned up then and joined the conversation, and without any clear referent, with his subtle voice, that of a highly educated gentleman, asked:
—Do you have a wife?
—Yes.
—And what does she do?
—She teaches in the same school, that’s where we met. But she also works in the math department at the University of Naples, she’s brilliant.
—Great, we’ll ask her to write a book for us, too. Tell her that.
—Yes, Tilde said. On the teaching of the sciences. The twin of what you’ve done.
—We have a daughter who’s less than a year old. She takes up all our time.
—We’ll ask the baby for a book, too, Itrò quipped.