Accabadora

― Marukami, Kafka on the Shore

It’s terrible for a mother to ask herself that question about her own daughter, a girl of twenty. But I couldn’t talk to anyone about it; Riccardo and Michele would react violently. Men always say, “You’ll be sorry if my daughter, you’ll be sorry if my sister …” They say, “I won’t tolerate it.” It’s easy to say “I won’t tolerate it.” Yet things hap

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When I was twenty, Michele and the children already existed, even before I met him and they were born. They were my fate, even more than my calling. I had only to trust, to obey. If I think about it, that seems to me the cause of Mirella’s restlessness: the possibility of not obeying. That’s what has changed everything, between fathers and children

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“You’re pale, mamma,” said Michele. “You’re too tired, you work too much. I’ll get you a cognac.” I jumped up, refusing. He insisted. “Thanks,” I said. “I don’t want to drink anything, it’s passed. You’re right, maybe I was a little tired, but now I’m fine.” I smiled and gave him a reassuring hug. “Always the same, you recover immediately,” Michele

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