Difficult Loves (18 page)

He had locked himself into Fabrizia's storeroom. Hung on a long clothes rack were all the furs in a row. The old man's eyes shone with joy. Furs! He began to pass his hands along them, from one to the other, as if playing a harp; then he rubbed his shoulder, his face in them. There was gray and sullen mink, astrakhan of voluptuous softness, silver foxes like grassy clouds, gray squirrels and stone martens exquisitely smooth and light, firm brown cozy beavers, good-natured and dignified rabbits, little white-speckled goats with a dry rustle, leopards with a shuddering caress. Barbagallo noticed that his teeth were chattering from the cold. He took a lamb's-wool jacket and tried it on; it fitted him like a glove. He tied a fox

fur around his hips, twisting the tawny tail to make a loincloth. Then he slipped into a sable coat that must have been made for an enormous woman, it wrapped him in such big soft folds. He also found a pair of boots lined with beaver, and then a beautiful bearskin hat; he was really comfortable Then a muff, and he was set. He preened himself in front of the mirror for a bit; it was impossible to distinguish what was beard and what was fur.

The clothes rack was still loaded with furs. Barbagallo flung them to the ground one by one until he had a wide soft bed under him to sink into. Then he stretched out and made all the rest of the furs cascade down on top of him like an avalanche. It was so warm that it seemed a pity to fall asleep and not enjoy just lying there, but the old porter could not hold out for long and soon sank into a serene and dreamless sleep.

When he woke up he saw night through the window. All around, silence. Obviously the fur shop was closed, and he wondered how he would ever get out. He listened and thought he heard a cough in the adjoining room. A light filtered through the keyhole.

Decked with mink, silver foxes, antelopes, and a bearskin hat, he got up and slowly opened the door. The girl with the black braids was sewing, bent over a table, by the light of a lamp. Because of the value of the goods in the storeroom, Signora Fabrizia made one of the girls stay and sleep in a bed in the workroom, to give the alarm in case of theft.

"Linda," said Barbagallo. The girl opened her eyes wide; there, standing in the shadow, she saw a gigantic human bear with its arms entwined in an astrakhan muff. "How lovely ..." she said.

Barbagallo took a few steps up and down, peacocking like a model.

Linda said, "But now I must call the police."

"The police!" Barbagallo was upset. "But I'm not stealing anything. What can I do with these things? Obviously I can't go around the streets like this. I only came in here to take off my vest, which was prickling me."

They arranged that he would stay the night there and leave early in the morning. What was more, Linda knew how to wash flannel so that it would stop tickling him, and she would wash his vest and pants for him.

Barbagallo helped her to wring them out and put up the line, then hang them near the electric fire. Linda had some apples, which they ate.

Then Barbagallo said, "Let's see how you look in these furs." And he made her try them all on, in all variations, with her braids up and with her hair loose, and they exchanged impressions on the softness of the various furs against the skin.

Finally, they constructed a hut entirely of furs, big enough for them both to lie under, and they went inside to sleep.

When Linda awoke he was already up and putting on the vest and pants. The dawn was showing through the window.

"Are they quite dry?"

"A little damp, but I must go."

"Do they still tickle?"

"Not a bit. I'm as comfortable as a pope."

He helped Linda straighten up the storeroom, put on his military overcoat, and said good-bye to her at the door.

Linda stood watching him as he walked away, with the white strip of pants between his overcoat and boots, and his proud tuft of hair in the cold dawn air.

Barbagallo had no intention of asking for a suit at the archbishop's palace; he had got a new idea—going around the squares of the surrounding villages in his vest and pants, giving exhibitions of physical prowess.

TRANSIT BED

The important thing was not to get himself arrested immediately. Gim flattened himself in the recess of a doorway; the police seemed to run straight past, but then, all at once, he heard their steps come back, turn into the alley. He darted off, in agile leaps.

"Stop or we'll shoot, Gim!"

Sure, sure, go ahead and shoot! he thought, and he was already out of their range, his feet thrusting him from the edge of the pebbled steps, down the slanting streets of the old city. Above the fountain, he jumped over the railing of the stairs; then he was under the archway, which amplified the pounding of his steps.

The whole circuit that came into his mind had to be rejected: Lola no, Nilde no, Renée no. Those guys would soon be all over the place, knocking at doors. It was a mild night, the clouds so pale they wouldn't have looked out of place in the daytime, above the arches set high over the alleyways.

On reaching the broad streets of the new city, Mario Albanesi, alias Gim Bolero, slowed his pace a little, tucked behind his ears the strings of hair that fell from his temples.

Not a step could be heard. Determined and discreet, he crossed over, reached Armanda's doorway, and climbed to her apartment. At this time of night she surely didn't have anybody with her; she would be sleeping. Gim knocked hard.

"Who's there?" a man's voice asked, irritated, after a moment. "At this time of night people get their sleep. ..." It was Lilin.

"Open up a minute, Armanda. It's me, it's Gim," he said, not loud, but firmly.

Armanda rolled over in bed. "Oh, Gim boy, just a minute, I'll open the door. ... Uh, it's Gim." She grabbed the cord at the head of the bed that opened the front door and pulled.

The door clicked, obedient; Gim went along the corridor, hands in his pockets; he entered the bedroom. In Armanda's huge bed, her body, in great mounds under the sheet, seemed to take up all the space. On the pillow, her face, without makeup under the black bangs, hung slack, baggy, and wrinkled. Beyond, as if in a fold of the blanket, on the far side of the bed, her husband, Lilin, was lying; he seemed to want to bury his little bluish face in the pillow, to recover his interrupted sleep.

Lilin has to wait till the last customer has gone before he can get into bed and sleep off the weariness that accumulates during his lazy days. There is nothing in the world that Lilin knows how to do or wants to do; if he has his smokes, he's content. Armanda can't say Lilin costs her much, except for the packs of tobacco he consumes in the course of a day. He goes out with his pack in the morning, sits for a while at the cobbler's, at the junk dealer's, at the plumber's, rolls one paper after another, and smokes, seated on those shop stools, his long, smooth, thief's hands on his knees, his gaze dull, listen-

ing like a spy to everyone, hardly ever contributing a word to the talk except for brief remarks and unexpected smiles, crooked and yellow. In the evening, when the last shop has closed, he goes to the wine counter and drains a bottle, burning up the cigarettes he has left, until they also pull down the shutters. He comes out; his wife is still on her beat along the Corso, in her short dress, her swollen feet in her tight shoes. Lilin appears around a corner, gives her a low whistle, mutters a few words to tell her it's late now, she should come to bed. Without looking at him, on the curb as if on a stage, her bosom compressed in the armature of wire and elastic, her old-woman's body in her young-girl's dress, nervously twitching her purse in her hands, drawing circles on the pavement with her heels, suddenly humming, she tells him no, people are still around, he must go off and wait. They woo each other like this every night.

"Well, then, Gim?" Armanda says, widening her eyes.

He has already found some cigarettes on the night table and lights one.

"I have to spend the night here. Tonight."

And he is already taking off his jacket, undoing his tie.

"Sure, Gim, get into bed. You go onto the sofa, Lilin; go on, Lilin honey, clear out now, let Gim get to bed."

Lilin lies there a bit, like a stone, then he pulls himself up, emitting a complaint without distinct words; he gets down from the bed, takes his pillow, a blanket, the tobacco from the table, the cigarette papers, matches, ashtray. "Go on, Lilin honey, go on." Tiny and hunched, he goes off under his load toward the sofa in the corridor.

Gim smokes as he undresses, folds his trousers neatly and hangs them up, arranges his jacket around a chair by the head

of the bed, brings the cigarettes from the dresser to the night table, matches, an ashtray, and climbs into bed. Armanda turns off the lamp and sighs. Gim smokes. Lilin sleeps in the corridor. Armanda rolls Over. Gim stubs out his cigarette. There is a knocking at the door.

With one hand Gim is already touching the revolver in the pocket of his jacket; with the other he has taken Armanda by the elbow, warning her to be careful. Armanda's arm is fat and soft; they stay like that for a while.

"Ask who it is, Lilin," Armanda says in a low voice.

Lilin, in the hall, huffs impatiently. "Who is it?" he asks rudely.

"Hey, Armanda, it's me. Angelo."

"Angelo who?" she says.

"Angelo the sergeant, Armanda. I happened to be going by, and I thought I'd come up. ... Can you open the door a minute?"

Gim has got out of the bed and is signaling her to be quiet. He opens a door, looks into the bathroom, takes the chair with his clothes, and carries it inside.

"Nobody's seen me. Get rid of him fast," he says softly and locks himself in the bathroom.

"Come on, Lilin honey, get back into bed; come on, Lilin." From the bed, Armanda directs the rearrangement.

"Armanda, you're keeping me waiting," the other man says, beyond the door.

Calmly, Lilin collects blanket, pillow, tobacco, matches, papers, ashtray, and comes back to bed, gets in, and pulls the sheet to his eyes. Armanda grabs the cord and clicks open the door.

Sergeant Soddu comes in; he has the rumpled look of an

old policeman in civilian clothes, his mustache gray against his fat face.

"You're out late, Sergeant," Armanda says.

"Oh, I was just taking a walk," Soddu says, "and I thought I'd pay you a call."

"What was it you wanted?"

Soddu was at the head of the bed, wiping his sweaty face with his handkerchief.

"Nothing, just a little visit. What's new?"

"New how?"

"Have you seen Albanesi, by any chance?"

"Gim? What's he done now?"

"Nothing. Kid stuff ... We wanted to ask him something. Have you seen him?"

"Three days ago."

"I mean now."

"I've been asleep for two hours, Sarge. Why are you asking me? Go ask his girls : Rosy, Nilde, Lola. ..."

"No use. When he's in trouble, he stays away from them."

"He hasn't shown up here. Next time, Sarge."

"Well, Armanda, I was just asking. Anyway, I'm glad to pay you a visit."

"Good night, Sarge."

"Good night."

Soddu turned, but didn't leave.

"I was thinking ... it's practically morning, and I don't have any other rounds to make. I don't feel like going back to that cot. As long as I'm here, I've got half a mind to stay. What about it, Armanda?"

"Sergeant, you're always great, but to tell you the truth, at this time of night I'm not receiving. That's how it is, Sarge. We all have our schedule."

"Armanda ... an old friend like me." Soddu was already removing his jacket, his undershirt.

"You're a nice man, Sergeant. Why don't we get together tomorrow night?"

Soddu went on undressing. "It's to pass the night, you understand, Armanda? Well, make some room for me."

"Lilin will go on the sofa, then. Go on, Lilin honey, go on out now."

Lilin groped with his long hands, found the tobacco on the table, pulled himself up, grumbling, climbed from the bed almost without opening his eyes, collected pillow, blanket, papers, matches. "Go on, Lilin honey." He went off, dragging the blanket along the hall. Soddu turned over between the sheets.

Next door, Gim looked through the panes of the little window at the sky, turning green. He had left his cigarettes on the table, that was the trouble. And now the other man was getting into bed and Gim had to stay shut up until daylight between that bidet and those boxes of talcum powder, unable to smoke. He had dressed again in silence, had combed his hair neatly, looking at himself in the washstand mirror, above the fence of perfumes and eyedrops and syringes and medicines and insecticides that adorned the shelf. He read some labels in the light from the window, stole a box of pills, then continued his tour of the bathroom. There weren't many discoveries to be made: some clothes in a tub, others on a line. He tested the taps of the bidet; the water spurted noisily. What if Soddu had heard? To hell with Soddu and with jail. Gim was bored; he went back to the basin, sprinkled some cologne on his jacket, spread brilliantine on his hair. The fact was, if they didn't arrest him today, they would tomorrow, but they hadn't caught him red-handed, and if all went well

they'd turn him loose right away. To wait there another two or three hours, without cigarettes, in that cubbyhole ... why did he bother? Of course they'd let him out right away. He opened a closet; it creaked. To hell with the closet and everything else. Inside it, Armanda's clothes were hanging. Gim stuck his revolver into the pocket of a fur coat. I'll come back and get it, he thought; she won't be wearing this till winter anyhow. He drew out his hand, white with naphthalene. All the better: the gun won't get moth-eaten. He laughed. He went to wash his hands again, but Armanda's towels turned his stomach and he dried himself on a topcoat in the closet.

Lying in bed, Soddu had heard noises next door. He put one hand on Armanda. "Who's there?" She turned, pressed to him, and put her big, soft arm around his neck. "It's nothing. ... Who could it be? ..." Soddu didn't want to free himself, but he still heard movements in there, and he asked, as if playing: "What is it? What's that?"