E-Book, Englisch, 304 Seiten
De Céspedes There's No Turning Back
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-80533-113-1
Verlag: Pushkin Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Englisch, 304 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-80533-113-1
Verlag: Pushkin Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Alba de Céspedes (1911-97) was a bestselling Italian-Cuban novelist, poet and screenwriter. The granddaughter of the first President of Cuba, de Céspedes was raised in Rome. Married at 15 and a mother by 16, she began her writing career after her divorce at the age of 20. She worked as a journalist throughout the 1930s while also taking an active part in the Italian partisan struggle, and was twice jailed for her anti-fascist activities. After the fall of fascism, she founded the literary journal Mercurio and went on to become one of Italy's most successful and most widely translated authors. Forbidden Notebook and Her Side of the Story are also available from Pushkin Press.Ann Goldstein is a former editor at the New Yorker. She has translated works by Elena Ferrante, Pier Paolo Pasolini, and Alessandro Baricco. She has been the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship and awards from the Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the American Academy of Arts and Letters.
Weitere Infos & Material
As the nun read the last words of the evening prayer, an indolent chorus of girls responded: “Amen.” Silence followed, veined with impatience. Some of the girls stared, transfixed, at the lighted tapers on the altar, others turned toward the back of the chapel, waiting for a sign from the Mother Superior to release them. Eager to leave, they didn’t even talk to one another. Soon afterward they filed out, two by two; in a compact column, they crossed the wide hall, where daylight lingered on the opaque glass of the front door.
They were grown-up girls, dressed in a variety of ways; near the stairs, as if at another signal, they threw off their veils and relaxed. Suddenly, the silence became a dense chatter; subdued laughter grew gradually more open and bold.
They talked about the university, the professors, some exchanged whispered confidences. One of the nuns, clapping her hands lightly, said: “That’s enough, girls, enough, go to your rooms.” She was the only sister the girls didn’t dare talk back to. Besides, she wasn’t a sister like the others; tall, slender, and still young, she had a melodious voice, slim white hands. When she spoke, the girls stopped to think, and, involuntarily, obeyed.
Right away they started up the stairs; only Vinca delayed, asking as she did every evening: “May I use the phone, Sister Lorenza?”
Her closest friends turned to hear what would happen; Valentina pulled her by the sleeve so hard she staggered.
“It’s late tonight, Vinca; you’ll call tomorrow morning.”
“But I …”
“Tomorrow morning, I said. Now go to sleep or to study. Good night.”
Gathering around, her friends snickered: “Bad luck, you failed.”
“She does it because she’s angry,” Vinca replied, “because she’s shut up in here. It doesn’t matter: I’m sleepy, I’m going to bed.”
“I’m tired, too,” said Augusta. She was at least thirty, the oldest of the students at the Grimaldi: tall but heavy, her curly black hair cut like a mop. She said good night to the nuns, took Vinca by the arm, and they set off.
At the same time a plump blonde moved quickly among the girls, whispering to some of them: “We’re meeting in 63.”
These gave brief, wary nods. Then they faded into the shadows of the long corridors and disappeared into their rooms.
Room 63 smelled of stuffed dried figs; they were sent to Silvia from Calabria in large baskets that she put on top of the wardrobe: anyone who wanted some could climb up on a chair and fish around in the basket. Silvia, lying on the bed, seemed to be asleep. Ever since she arrived at the Grimaldi, three years ago now, she had worn mourning. She had dull black braids wrapped around her head, an olive complexion, and dark, slightly squinting eyes under heavy lids that shone as if they’d been oiled.
Because of the black garments hanging on the walls, mourning clothed the room as well; the girls often gathered there after dinner to study. Really they would have liked to go to bed, to sleep: overcoming that desire took an effort. Only Xenia was always awake. She decreed: “Let’s go,” and the others didn’t dare refuse.
The lamp hung low over the table where Valentina was reading, numbed by the cold; it was mid-November, and the weather seemed to predict a frigid winter. Putting down the book, she turned toward the bed and asked: “Are you asleep, Silvia?”
“No. I’m thinking.”
“You were sleeping …”
“No. I was thinking how tomorrow in my village there’s a big celebration: my mother makes a raisin cake, a big log burns in the hearth, and the cousins come to our house to eat.”
“Do you wish you were there?”
“No.” Then she added, uncertain: “That is, I don’t know. Tomorrow, yes. For a few days, maybe. But then I would feel remorseful about all of you and what I have to do. There’s no time to waste.”
“You’re right,” Xenia agreed. “Some nights a kind of yearning grips me: I can’t close my eyes and I get worn out thinking how I’m caged in this cloister of nuns, while outside life is flowing, fortune passing by—who knows?—and I can’t take advantage of it. You have to jump into life headlong, grab it by the throat. I won’t ever go back to Veroli, anyway.”
She was interrupted by Anna, who came in saying: “Did you see what a moon there is tonight, girls?” She went to the window and opened it. “Augusta’s gone to bed, Vinca couldn’t call. I don’t know what I wouldn’t give to know Spanish and understand what she says to Luis every night.”
“What do you think she says?” replied Xenia. “The same things we all say.”
“Or don’t say to anyone,” Valentina specified.
“Isn’t Milly coming? And the new girl in 28?”
“I don’t know,” said Valentina. “I told them.”
“Milly’s tired, she says she’s going to bed, then she’ll read till late. The new girl said she’ll come, but maybe she’ll do what she did last night.”
“I don’t understand what she’s doing here,” Silvia observed from the bed. “She doesn’t even have a book. She wants to study art history, she said—we’ll see, she knows French, English … In other words the education of people who know nothing. But she’s not an ordinary girl. She annoys me because she forced herself on us.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true. She’s the only one we invited to join our group as soon as she arrived. When she sat at the table, in the refectory, it was you, Xenia, who immediately said to her, ‘Stay with us in literature.’”
“Are you sorry?”
“No, but …”
“That’s enough,” Anna concluded. “Let’s enjoy the moon.” And before the others could respond she turned off the light.
Through the window, half covered by the shutter, a flood of light poured onto the floor. Valentina, sitting at the table, was struck by it and rose suddenly.
“With this moon,” Silvia said, “everyone in my village will go out and sing.” Because of the shutter, they could see only a narrow rectangle of sky beyond the thick brown treetops of Villa Borghese.
“There are people out walking at this hour,” Valentina said softly. “Yes, free people,” Xenia added.
They were still in the dark when Emanuela entered, and at first she didn’t recognize them; in fact, thinking she’d gone to the wrong room, she said, “Oh! … excuse me,” and was about to leave.
But Xenia called her back: “Come in, come in, it’s us. We were looking at the moon—you can turn on the light if you want.”
Emanuela stood, silent in the shadowy light. Walking through the halls, she, too, had felt a desire to look out; but the big windows were barred and locked.
“What did you come here for?” Silvia asked.
Emanuela was puzzled for a moment, not knowing if the words were addressed to her, but the silence of the others made her certain. Resentfully she answered: “Xenia invited me, and Valentina said I should come up to 63. I’ll leave immediately.”
“Silly! I meant what are you staying here at the residence for?”
“What about you?”
“I’m studying. But you can live without doing anything, so why didn’t you stay home instead of coming here to eat cabbage soup?”
Emanuela, as if apologizing, said: “I couldn’t.” And, feeling that they were all waiting for further explanations, she added: “My parents are traveling. In America.”
“In America?” Xenia observed. “They have a lot of money.”
“Now I’m starting to understand,” said Silvia.
“In America …” Valentina repeated, looking at the window, where the curtain was swelling in the night breeze.
Hearing the sister’s voice, they all stirred. They turned on the light, closed the shutters. A voice made monotonous by habit was passing through the halls, crying, “Lights! … Lights! …” Prolonging the ‘i’ like a lament.
Anna moved the chairs, bringing them closer to the table. Valentina took an oil lamp from a shelf that held a little of everything.
“What are you doing?” Emanuela asked her.
“Didn’t you hear? She said ‘Lights.’”
“Why?”
“Well, you’re on the first floor, like Milly; you pay more, but they...
