A Life (15 page)

Alfonso deduced that, even if she did not love him, she must be flattered by his love and respect. He exaggerated his shyness because that explained the strange situation and made it possible to prolong it.

Amid this love-making, literary work languished, which flattered Alfonso because it seemed to have become secondary for Annetta too. One evening Alfonso happened to bring some of his work on the book, and Annetta forgot to ask if she could read it. As the book proceeded, however, every single thing was done
according
to Annetta’s suggestions, and every day Alfonso felt the plot becoming emptier and the novel sillier. He thought that as
confidence
between them increased, a day would come when he could tell her his opinion, but for the moment he did not even dare express the slightest doubt. He did not want to expose himself to the danger of seeing any dimming of the gleam in Annetta’s eyes when she looked at him. For him that novel was of very slight importance, and he could not bear to hear even a brusque word from his loved one because of it.

He was torn from this idyll not by any wish of his own or of Annetta’s—it had been created unknowingly by Macario and was now destroyed by Miceni and Fumigi.

Miceni made it most obvious that he envied Alfonso his
familiarity
in the Maller home. Of course he had not said so, and as usual Alfonso refused to admit it even when Miceni with his bizarre character made it clear. Miceni’s darts did not wound him even when the poor man began to speak of his love for Annetta and to pretend that it would have been reciprocated had he been more insistent. From some words of Macario’s Alfonso knew what to think of this. One day Miceni, as if feeling more intimate with Alfonso, told him why he had stopped
paying
court to Annetta: out of regard for Fumigi, whom he knew to be in love with her. Fumigi was an old friend of Miceni’s who had got him his job at Mallers—he had a right to consideration in return.

This assertion left Alfonso less cold than the other. He too had noticed that Fumigi was in love with Annetta, and it was a love which, it had to be recognized, might quite probably achieve its aim. By the cold light of reason he realized that Fumigi was not too old and was a suitable match for Annetta.

Noticing that it disturbed Alfonso to hear Fumigi spoken of, Miceni often did so, exorcizing his own jealousy at the expense of Alfonso.

It is more difficult to seem indifferent when one is not than impassioned when one is indifferent. Miceni usually began by speaking to him about business, a pretext to go to his room. When forced to name Annetta, Alfonso sifted every word before saying it, and with a carelessness which he felt to be obviously excessive and affected spoke of her as if he had seen her very few times in his life. He said she was beautiful and topped his show of
indifference
by mentioning that he desired her as any man does any pretty woman. But when they spoke of Fumigi, he could not get out a word that sounded indifferent. He was not bothered if Miceni thought that Annetta loved him, but it hurt him deeply that any man could think her lover to be anyone but himself. He said with visibly forced calm that he knew Fumigi and did not think he could be in love with Annetta. Then Miceni lost his calm too.

“Why d’you think I’d come and tell you, if it’s not true? Ask around. Everyone in town knows it apart from you.”

He was as heated in affirming as was Alfonso in denying it; but when Alfonso noticed himself to be straying too far from his role of indifference, he cut short the discussion, declaring that either could be true and he really did not care. He spoke energetically, but too volubly, and the look on his face and sound of his voice were anything but indifferent.

Pleased as if bringing good news, Miceni told him that Fumigi and Annetta were engaged. Alfonso began laughing, calmly and this time sincerely.

“I was at the Mallers yesterday and would have been told if it had been true.”

“It’s not official yet; but probably as we’re talking Fumigi is at Annetta’s home for the first time as a future husband.”

Miceni’s voice had gone shrill, as if offended by Alfonso’s tranquillity.

Alfonso did not deign to discuss the matter. The evening before Annetta had treated him even better than usual. She had told him about her childhood, her life in a college where she had been sent after her mother’s death. These were confidences, and, surprised and pleased, Alfonso saw another improvement of his position. For some time he had been admiring his own ability, and that evening, coming out of the Maller home, he murmured:

“That’s the real art. Effortless advance.”

He was not supposed to go to Annetta’s that evening, but
agitated
by Miceni’s words he walked for a long time up and down Via dei Forni. The house looked just as usual, its long row of
uninhabited
rooms with windows hermetically closed and all blinds drawn; only the window of the living-room was half-open.

Coming out of Via dei Forni towards the sea he ran into Fumigi. Having thought of him so much, Alfonso felt embarrassed at
suddenly
setting eyes on him, and the other seemed no less confused.

“Are you … leaving?” asked Fumigi, stuttering and making a sign towards the Mallers’ house, from which direction Alfonso was coming.

“No!”said Alfonso rather sharply. Fumigi might have been accusing him of some crime. “I’ve been out taking exercise for nearly an hour. If you’d like to keep me company …”

Fumigi, usually such a dandy, looked rather disordered; his tie was not in place, the collar of his black overcoat, which was brand new, was turned up.

“Shall we go to the new port?” he asked. He looked at the clock again and after a slight hesitation began to walk along beside Alfonso.

They were silent as they moved along under the pale rays of the setting sun. From the station square they turned towards the sea and stopped on the first mole, recently finished with white irregular paving stones.

“Splendid!” said Alfonso, glad to be able to talk and looking at the sun. Half its incandescent ball was still showing out of the sea. The calm white light that illuminated the houses on the shore did not seem to come from that red object. It made pink reflections on the horizon and reddened half a little white cloud, motionless over the city where dark was already falling in the inner streets.

Neither of the two really had eyes for the magnificent
spectacle
. Alfonso was observing Fumigi, who was so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not even bother to hide his preoccupation. He looked again at his watch and murmured a few words which Alfonso did not understand; then he thrust his hands into his pockets, trembling with impatience and looking at the water at his feet. He had even forgotten he was in company.

“Are you in a hurry?” Alfonso asked him.

“No!” replied Fumigi. “I’ve got to be at an appointment at
half-past
seven.”

So what Miceni had said was true, Alfonso thought, and the appointment which Fumigi was so keen to be on time for was with Maller. Fumigi was awaiting a decision and Alfonso still felt so sure of himself that he pitied this feverish impatience of a poor man whom he knew was about to suffer.

Fumigi’s bearing was so abnormal that pretending not to know its cause made pretending not to notice it impossible.

“Aren’t you well?”

“No … yes, a slight headache. But what disturbs me is having to stay in the open to be sure of not missing my appointment. Anyway what I’m worried about just doesn’t really deserve it, I can assure you.”

“It’s unimportant, is it?” asked Alfonso in amazement.

“No, very important indeed, but …” and he gave a little shrug of the shoulders which Alfonso took to mean utter certainty about his own position.

“Then why worry?”

Alfonso went on calming him, but he would have given much to destroy this confidence of Fumigi’s, which stung him.

For a few moments Fumigi seemed calmer. Then he fell back into his meditations, so little heeding Alfonso that he suddenly bid him goodbye in the middle of another phrase which the other was thinking up to calm him. He needed to be alone, but particularly wanted to make time pass, and he bid farewell while still having to say something—in order to find relief, which was not what he would have said willingly. He took his leave rather wordily,
mentioning
another appointment he had to go to even before that one.

Alfonso followed him with an attentive eye and noticed a slight hesitation about his direction on reaching the middle of the square. It was obvious! The poor man was just wandering about with his agonizing doubt and had no other reason for moving.

That hesitation alone touched Alfonso’s pity and took away the anger aroused in him by Fumigi’s stupid certainty. This pity even went so far that he began dreaming up ways in which he could reconcile his own happiness with Fumigi’s. There were none, but
that did not prevent him making a story out of a situation in which he reserved for himself the not unpleasant role of Fumigi’s old friend. What he found unpalatable was the feeling that he had cooperated in Fumigi’s unhappiness and knowingly deserved someone’s hatred for the first time in his life. This was enough to give him a deep disgust at his own happiness.

Then he settled down to work on the novel in case the nasty labour of it might make him feel he deserved his good fortune more and as if he were placating the envy of the Gods by making himself miserable.

Remembering a word of Miceni’s was enough to take away part of his security.

“Probably it’s all settled by this time.”

If that very second Alfonso had been suddenly told that Fumigi had killed himself after being refused by Annetta, he would not have been at all sorry.

He happened to remain in that state of mind for a number of days. That evening he did not see Annetta. The maid stopped him on the stairs to say that Signorina Annetta could not receive him.

“Is there news, then?” asked Alfonso in alarm. Then seeing the woman’s surprise he added, “Is the Signorina unwell?”

“No!” replied the maid, oldish and rather pretentiously dressed, who had always treated Alfonso with great indifference, maybe partly because he had forgotten to flirt with her. “She’s quite well.” And she hurried off as if she was so busy she could not remain idle for a few minutes.

That was enough to make Alfonso wonder whether Fumigi had received a different reply than he had supposed. Where had Fumigi derived that security in which he seemed lulled? Though Alfonso knew nothing new, he was beginning now to gather together signs that Fumigi’s question had been greeted favourably, and no longer found indications of its rejection as he had done till then. Even the maid’s state of hurry seemed to show that a serious change had taken place in Annetta’s life.

Though still convinced that Fumigi must have been refused, now it was only because it seemed incredible that Annetta could ever consent to marry him; not from love of anyone else, not from love of him. He had nothing to do with that decision, he felt now.
Threatened with a great disaster, even when the imminent danger had been avoided he would not feel any the safer.

Next day Miceni told him that he had no news yet but was in no hurry; his card of congratulations would still arrive in time. He hurried off without allowing Alfonso time to make a reply which he must have expected to be sharp. They had never exchanged a single word about Alfonso’s relations with Annetta, but Miceni acted as if he knew of them, and Alfonso realized this.

That evening he went to Annetta’s. On the way he felt hopeful; he would find her unchanged and awaiting him in that library where he would spend yet another unforgettable evening.

Just as he was about to put his hat down in the entrance hall, already reassured, Santo called him from the landing.

“The Signorina can’t see you today; she’s ill.”

Alfonso went pale. Was Miceni right then?

“Very ill?” he asked Santo. He had to pretend even with him.

“Oh you know! Women!” explained Santo with the irreverence usual to him when speaking of his employers behind their backs.

She was not ill! In the drawing-room, all lit up as on evenings when she was receiving, maybe she was sitting next to Fumigi, who was enjoying the full joy of sweet emotion, the calm of uncontested possession, which Alfonso thought must be supreme happiness.

Santo had already turned his back. Until then and since seeing him at the Mallers, Santo had treated him with almost irritating servility. His contempt now was an evident sign that he considered him a failure. Alfonso followed him for a step or two.

“Please tell Signorina Annetta that I’ve been here and am very sorry to hear she’s unwell.”

He went down the stairs looking straight ahead and without deigning to answer the farewell which Santo did actually give. His thoughts were still on the two who were perhaps kissing alone in the sitting-room; but until he was in the next street, he took care to show no sign on his face of the feelings agitating him; someone might be watching him from that house so as to enjoy his sorrow.

This was a silly idea, he thought then: nobody bothered about him any more, even to hurt him. It was drizzling, and he was holding his umbrella closed in his hand. The thought of how he
could tell Miceni had bothered him, as he had imagined the latter’s atrocious and facile irony. But now he need be careful no longer. To hide from Miceni the stupid illusions he had nourished till that day was, he now realized, impossible. Yet, he might try to describe to him how these illusions had started and how they had been encouraged by Annetta.

If all was over, as he kept repeating to himself it was, then he had lost a very great deal indeed. His life’s aim no less; what else remained to him? For that love he had forgotten his ambition which he did not think could ever revive now that there was no future for him in the Maller household. To be drawn from his squalor by a woman’s kiss had been a dream, a splendid dream. Life for a time had lost its air of severity and injustice, had sent without a struggle fortune and happiness to one who deserved it; it sent forth its dictat from above, and he had got wealth and love.