Contempt (17 page)

“Yes, a little.”

“Well, Freud will serve us as a guide through this interior landscape of Ulysses, not Berard with his maps and his philology which explains nothing...and, instead of the Mediterranean, we shall explore the mind of Ulysses—or rather, his subconscious.”

Vaguely irritated, I said, with perhaps excessive violence: “What’s the point of going to Capri, then, for a boudoir drama? We might just as well work in a furnished room in a modern quarter of Rome.”

As I spoke, I saw Rheingold throw me a glance of mingled surprise and resentment; he then laughed disagreeably, as though he preferred to make a joke of a discussion that threatened to end badly. “We’d better resume this conversation, calmly, at Capri,” he said, and then went on: “You can’t drive and discuss the
Odyssey
with me both at the same time, Molteni. Now you had better devote yourself to driving, and I, for my part, will admire this extremely beautiful landscape.”

I did not dare contradict him; and for almost an hour we went on in silence. We passed through the region of the ancient Pontine Marshes, with the thick, sluggish water of the canal on our right and the green expanse of the reclaimed plain on our left; we passed through Cisterna; we came to Terracina. After this latter town, the road started to run close beside the sea, being sheltered on its other side by rocky, sun-scorched mountains of moderate height. The sea was not calm; it could be seen beyond the yellow and black dunes, and was of an opaque green, a color that one guessed to be produced by the large quantity of sand stirred up from the bottom by a recent storm. Massive waves rose languidly, and their white water, like soapsuds, invaded the brief stretch of beach. Farther off, the sea was in movement but there were no waves, and the green color changed into an almost violet blue, over which, driven by the wind, appearing and disappearing, white curls of foam ran swiftly. The same capricious, lively disorder reigned in the sky: there were white clouds traveling in all directions; vast blue spaces swept by radiant, blinding light; sea-birds turning and swooping and hovering, as though taking care to follow, with their flight, the gusts and eddies of the wind. I drove with my eyes upon this seascape; and, all of a sudden, as if in reaction against the remorse aroused in me by Rheingold’s surprised, offended look when I described his interpretation of the
Odyssey
as a “boudoir drama,” there flashed into my mind the thought that, after all, I had not been wrong: upon that bright-colored sea, beneath that luminous sky, along that deserted shore, it would not have been difficult to imagine the black ships of Ulysses outlined between one wave and another, sailing towards the then virgin and unknown lands of the Mediterranean. And Homer had wished to represent a sea just like this, beneath a similar sky, along a similar coast, with characters that resembled this landscape and had about them its ancient simplicity, its agreeable moderation. Everything was here, and there was nothing else. And now Rheingold was wanting to make this bright and luminous world, enlivened by the winds, glowing with sunshine, populated by quick-witted, lively beings, into a kind of dark, visceral recess, bereft of color and form, sunless, airless: the subconscious mind of Ulysses. And so the
Odyssey
was no longer that marvelous adventure, the discovery of the Mediterranean, in humanity’s fantastic infancy, but had become the interior drama of a modern man entangled in the contradictions of a psychosis. I said to myself, as a kind of conclusion to these reflections, that, in a sense, I could hardly have happened upon a more unfortunate script: to the usual tendency of the cinema to change everything for the worse which had no need to be changed at all, there was added, in this case, the particular gloom, entirely mechanical and abstract in quality, of psychoanalysis—applied, into the bargain, to a work of art as untrammeled and concrete as the
Odyssey
. We were passing along, at that moment, very close to the sea: beside the road were the green sprays of an exuberant vineyard planted almost in the sand, and beyond it a brief tract of shore, black with debris, upon which the big waves broke heavily from time to time. I pulled up suddenly and said dryly: “I simply must stretch my legs.”

We got out of the car, and I immediately started off down a path that led through the vineyard to the beach. I explained to Rheingold: “I’ve been shut up indoors for eight months...I haven’t seen the sea since last summer. Let’s go down to the beach for a moment.”

He followed me in silence; perhaps he was still offended, and still cross with me. The path wound through the vineyard for not much more than fifty yards and then petered out in the sand of the beach. The dull, mechanical sound of the engine had now been replaced by the irregular, echoing roar—to me a delicious sound—of waves piled upon each other and breaking in disorder. I walked a short distance, now going down on to the shimmering wet sand and now withdrawing again, according as the waves advanced or retired; finally I stopped and stood still for a long time on top of a sand-dune, my eyes turned towards the horizon. I felt I had offended Rheingold, that I ought to resume the conversation again in some more courteous manner, and that he was expecting me to do so. So, although it irritated me very much to be forced to interrupt my rapt contemplation of the far-off spaces of the sea, I finally made up my mind. “I’m sorry, Rheingold,” I said all at once, “perhaps I didn’t express myself very well just now. But, to tell you the truth, your interpretation didn’t entirely convince me...if you like, I’ll tell you why.”

He answered at once, solicitously: “Tell me...tell me... discussion is part of our work, isn’t it?”

“Well,” I resumed, without looking at him, “I am not entirely convinced, though I’m not saying that the
Odyssey
may not have that significance too. But the distinctive quality of the Homeric poems and, in general, of classical art is to conceal such a significance and a thousand other meanings too, that may occur to us moderns, in a conclusive, and what I may call a profound, form. What I mean is,” I added, with sudden, inexplicable irritation, “the beauty of the
Odyssey
consists precisely in this belief in reality as it is and as it presents itself objectively...in this same form, in fact, which allows of no analysis or dissection and which is exactly what it is: take it or leave it. In other words,” I concluded, still looking not at Rheingold but at the sea, “the world of Homer is a real world. Homer belonged to a civilization which had developed in accordance with, not in antagonism to, nature...That is why Homer believed in the reality of the perceptible world and saw it in a direct way, as he represented it, and that is why we too should accept it as it is, believing in it as Homer believed in it, literally, without going out of our way to look for hidden meanings.”

I paused, but my attempt at clarification, far from calming me, had strangely exasperated me, as though it had been an effort that I knew perfectly well to be useless. And almost immediately came Rheingold’s reply, accompanied by a burst of laughter, this time triumphant: “Extrovert, extrovert...You, Molteni, like all Mediterranean people, are an extrovert, and you don’t understand anyone who is an introvert. But of course there’s no harm in that. I am an introvert and you are an extrovert...it was precisely for that that I chose you. You, with your extrovert character, will counterbalance my introvert character. Our collaboration will work marvelously well, as you’ll see.”

I was on the point of answering him; and I think my answer would have been such as to offend him again, for I again felt violently irritated at his pig-headed obtuseness; when a well-known voice suddenly reached me from behind: “Rheingold, Molteni...what are you doing here? Taking the sea air?”

I turned and saw, clear-cut in the strong morning light, the two figures of Battista and Emilia, at the point where the dunes were highest. Battista was coming quickly down towards us, waving his hand in greeting, and Emilia was following more slowly, looking down at the ground. Battista’s whole bearing showed a cheerfulness and an assurance even greater than usual; while that of Emilia seemed to me to exude discontent, perplexity and an indefinable disgust.

Rather surprised, I said at once to Battista: “We thought you were far ahead...at Formia, at least, or even farther.”

Battista answered, in a self-possessed voice: “We went a long way around...I wanted to show your wife a property of mine near Rome where I’m building a villa...then we found a couple of grade crossings closed.” He turned towards Rheingold and asked: “Everything all right, Rheingold? Been talking about the
Odyssey
?”

“Everything all right,” replied Rheingold in the same telegraphic style, from beneath the peak of his cloth cap. Obviously Battista’s arrival annoyed him, and he would have preferred to continue the discussion with me.

“Splendid, that’s wonderful”; and Battista took us both confidentially by the arm and moved away, drawing us towards Emilia who had stopped at a little distance along the beach. “And now,” he went on, with a gallantry that seemed to me insufferable, “now, fair Signora, it’s up to you to decide. Shall we lunch at Naples, or shall we lunch at Formia? You must choose.”

Emilia gave a start and said: “You three must choose...it’s all the same to me.”

“No, no, goodness gracious, it’s the ladies who have to decide.”

“Well then, let’s lunch at Naples; I’m not hungry now.”

“All right, Naples let it be. Fish soup with
sughillo
. A band playing
O sole mio
...” There could be no doubt of Battista’s cheerfulness.

“What time does the steamer leave for Capri?” asked Rheingold.

“At half past two. We’d better get on,” replied Battista. He left us and went off towards the road.

Rheingold followed and, catching him up, walked beside him. Emilia, on the other hand, remained where she was for a moment, pretending to look at the sea, as though to allow them to go on ahead of us. But, as soon as I came up to her, she took me by the arm and said in a low voice: “I’m coming in your car now...and please don’t contradict me.”

I was struck by her tone of urgency. “Why, what’s happened?”

“Nothing...only that Battista drives too fast.”

We walked up the path in silence. When we reached the road, near the two stationary cars, Emilia moved in a determined manner towards mine.

“Hi,” cried Battista, “isn’t the Signora coming with me?”

I turned: Battista, was standing beside the open door of his car, in the sun-filled road. Rheingold remained in uncertainty between the two cars, looking at us. Emilia, without raising her voice, said quietly: “I’m going with my husband now. We’ll all meet at Naples.”

I expected Battista to give in without any more ado. But, to my slight surprise, he came running over to us. “Signora, you’re going to be with your husband for two months, at Capri...and I,” he added in a low voice, so as not to be overheard by the director, “I’ve had just a bit too much of Rheingold in Rome, and I assure you he’s not amusing. Surely your husband doesn’t mind you coming with me, do you, Molteni?”

I could not but answer, although it was an effort to me: “No, not at all. But Emilia says you drive too fast.”

“I’ll go at a snail’s space,” promised Battista, facetiously but with warmth. “But I do beg of you not to leave me alone with Rheingold.” He lowered his voice again. “If you knew what a bore he is. He talks of nothing but films.”

I don’t know what came over me at that moment. Perhaps I thought it was not worth while annoying Battista for so frivolous a reason. Without giving myself time to reflect, I said: “Come on Emilia...won’t you do this to please Battista?... He’s quite right, anyhow,” I added with a smile, “there’s nothing you can talk about to Rheingold except films.”

“Exactly,” confirmed Battista, satisfied. Then he took Emilia by the arm—very high up, right under the armpit—saying: “Come along, fair Signora, don’t be unkind...I promise you I’ll go at walking pace.”

Emilia threw me a glance which, at the time, I was quite unable to account for; then she answered slowly: “Very well, if you say so.” She turned with sudden decision, and adding “Let’s go, then” walked off with Battista, who still kept a tight grip on her arm, as if he feared she might escape. I was left standing in uncertainty beside my own car, gazing at Emilia and Battista as they moved away. Beside Battista, thickset and shorter than herself, she walked indolently, slowly, with an air of discontent that was yet full of an intense, mysterious sensuality. She seemed to me, at that moment, extremely beautiful; not the middle-class “fair signora” to whom Battista alluded, in that greedy, metallic voice of his; but truly very beautiful like some creature outside time or place, in harmony with the sparkling sea and the luminous sky against which her figure was outlined. And her beauty had about it a look of subjection, of reluctance, the cause of which I was at a loss to identify. Then, as I looked at her, I was struck by this thought: “Idiot...perhaps she wanted to be left alone with you...perhaps she wanted to talk to you, to explain things once and for all, to confide in you...perhaps she wanted to tell you that she loves you. And you forced her to go off with Battista.” This idea brought me a feeling of sharp regret, and I lifted my arm as though to call her. But by now it was too late: she was getting into Battista’s car and Battista was getting in beside her and Rheingold was walking towards me. So I got into my car, and Rheingold took the seat beside me. At that same moment Battista’s car went past us, grew rapidly smaller in the distance, and disappeared.

Perhaps Rheingold had become aware of the violent ill-humor that overcame me at that moment; for instead of resuming—at I feared he would—our conversation about the
Odyssey
, he pulled his cap down over his eyes, settled down into his seat and was very soon asleep. I drove on in silence, therefore, urging my far from powerful little car to its greatest possible speed; and all the time, in an uncontrollable, frantic manner, my ill-humor increased. The road had turned away from the sea, and was now crossing a prosperous countryside, golden in the sunshine. At any other time I should have rejoiced in these luxuriant trees which, here and there, met over my head, forming a living gallery of rustling leafy branches; in these gray olives scattered, as far as the eye could reach, over the red hillsides; in these orange groves laden with glossy, dark foliage in the midst of which shone the round, golden fruit; in these old, blackened farm buildings guarded by two or three tawny haystacks. But I saw nothing; I drove on and on, and as time passed my wretched ill-humor increased more and more. I did not try to discover the reason for it, which undoubtedly went far beyond simple regret at not having insisted upon taking Emilia with me; even if I had wished to do so, my mind was so obscured by anger that I should have been incapable of it. But, like some kind of uncontrollable nervous convulsion which lasts as long as it is due to last and then by successive phases, gradually dies down and ceases, leaving its victim all aching and dizzy, so my ill-humor gradually reached its highest point as we passed through fields and woods, plains and mountains, then decreased, and finally, as we came near Naples, vanished altogether. Now we were going swiftly down the hill towards the sea, in sight of the blue waters of the bay, amongst pines and magnolias; and I was feeling dull and torpid-like, an epileptic who has been shaken, body and soul, by a convulsion of irresistible violence.