On the occasion of Starnone’s new book, now available in all bookstores, I thought it appropriate to recall the novel of hers that has moved me most in recent years: Laces. A book that for me was much more than a simple reading experience: rather, I found myself walking through the four desolate walls of a family that I immediately felt inhabited the same room as me, and emerging a little unsteady, angry and at the same time understood, at times almost heartbroken. The volume’s bulk is deceptive, because, ultimately, Laces is a small book that can be found everywhere, but the mass of tangled feelings—just like the laces of the title—that Starnone transfers to the page makes this novel unstoppable.
The story is simple yet merciless, intimate, and meticulous: Vanda and Aldo are two elderly retired people who live in a huge but broken house, a marriage built on a very fragile balance of routine rituals. With two grown children, they are tied to the past by a set of painful memories and betrayals that struggle to let go. The powerful opening line—I would venture to say perhaps one of the most beautiful in contemporary Italian literature—encapsulates all the hallmarks of this small volume:
If you’ve forgotten, dear sir, I’ll remind you: I am your wife.
The speaker is Vanda, still young and completely immersed in the pain of being abandoned by Aldo, who suddenly leaves her alone with two young children. Because yes, Aldo leaves like that, from one day to the next, selfishly and in the cruelest of ways. He sets out in search of a freedom he’s never had and always longed for, immersed in his heart and soul in a relationship with a woman younger than himself, completely different from his wife, with whom he will remain in love for the rest of his life. Indeed, even though Aldo never dares use the word “love” in front of Vanda, more out of fear than respect, the young woman from his past will live forever in him and, consequently, painfully in the memory of his family. Vanda, on the other hand, remains. But she remains consumed by a rage and resentment that are destined never to leave her. She writes letters to her husband, cries, dies inside, threatens, toils over the myriad housework, makes accusations, and the pain ends up defining her entire identity.
One person told me that, until you’re married, you can’t truly understand this book, but, once I got to the end, I immediately thought that reading it as sons and daughters is (perhaps) even more intense. Because Starnone not only recounts the authentic suffering of married life, but manages to convey the point of view of each family member on paper, in three different moments: the one before the pain, during the years of the caesura, and, finally, the moment when everything falls back into place. The Italian author shows with surprising rigor—and tenderness to the point of tears—that sometimes the bonds that hold us together are not those of love, but deteriorating cords that need to be broken, and that continue to mark our skin. Sometimes, what binds us in inextricable tangles are guilt, appearances, the fear of loneliness, even the houses we bought together, dependence, desperation.
The only one who makes an effort to be truthful is Vanda, in one of her initial letters:
If I understand correctly, you disapprove of my saying “we” so frequently. But that’s how it is: the children and I are us, you are you now. By leaving, you destroyed our life with you. You destroyed the way we saw you, what we thought you were. […] you forced us to acknowledge that you were only a figment of our imagination.
Written by Maria De Gennaro
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Domenico Starnone, Lacci, Einaudi, Torino, 2014