Alduccio’s
mother turned back toward the landing. “You slut!” she yelled in the direction
of the street. “You’ve been a whore all your life, and now you come and call my
daughter a tramp!” A voice answered her from above; the words were hard to make
out. “And a good thing, too!” yelled his mother. “Just look who’s talking! You
who get your boyfriend to give the kids money to go to the movies so you can
stay home alone with him!” The voice from the courtyard or the landing went up
two or three tones in fury, and at that high pitch began to vomit out a
splendid collection of insults. When the voice stopped, it was the turn of
Alduccio’s mother again. “Do you remember,” she shouted, “you slut, when your
husband came home and found you in bed with your boyfriend right in front of
your two little kids?” She came into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her,
and there she went on, talking to herself, her voice vibrating in her throat
with a cutting-edge like a knife’s. “So just shut up, you miserable whore, and
when I see you in the street tomorrow, I’ll pull every hair out of your head,
and I hope you croak!” After a moment the door opened again, and Alduccio’s
father came in. He was drunk, as he was every evening.
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