The Pregnant Widow (2 page)

Whittaker was waiting for them, with his drink (and the mailsack), on the other side of the smeared glass.

K
eith went on within, while the girls lingered by the door (conferring or regrouping), and said,

“Was I seeing things? That was a new experience. Jesus Christ, what’s the
matter
with them?”

“It’s a different approach,” drawled Whittaker. “They’re not like you. They don’t believe in playing it cool.”

“I don’t either. I don’t play it cool. No one’d notice. Play
what
cool?”

“Then do what they do. Next time you see a girl you like, do a jumping jack at her.”

“It was incredible, that. These—these fucking
Italians.”

“Italians? Come on, you’re a Brit. You can do better than
Italians.”

“Okay, these wogs—I mean wops. These fucking beaners.”

“Beaners are Mexicans. This is pathetic.
Italians
, Keith—spicks, greaseballs, dagos.”

“Ah, but I was raised not to make distinctions based on race or culture.”

“That’ll be a lot of help to you. On your first trip to Italy.”

“And all those shrines … Anyway, I told you, it’s my origins. Me, I don’t judge. I can’t. That’s why you’ve got to look out for me.”

“You’re susceptible. Your hands shake—look at them. And it’s hard work being a neurotic.”

“It’s more than that. I’m not nuts, exactly, but I get episodes. I don’t see things clearly. I misread things.”

“Particularly with girls.”

“Particularly with girls. And I’m outnumbered. I’m a bloke and a Brit.”

“And a het.”

“And a het. Where’s my brother? You’ll have to be a brother to me. No. Treat me as the child you never had.”

“Okay, I will. Now listen. Now listen, son. Start looking at these guys with a bit of perspective. Johnny Eyetie is a play-actor. Italians are fantasists. Reality’s not good enough for them.”

“Isn’t it? Not even this reality?”

They turned, Keith in his T-shirt and jeans, Whittaker in his horn-rims, the oval leather elbow-patches on his cord jacket, the woollen scarf, fawn, like his hair. Lily and Scheherazade were now making their way towards the stairs to the basement, eliciting, from the elderly all-male clientele, a fantastic diversity of scowls; their soft shapes moved on, through the gauntlet of gargoyles, then swivelled, then exited downward, side by side. Keith said,

“Those old wrecks. What are they looking at?”

“What are they looking at? What do you think they’re looking at?
Two girls who forgot to put any clothes on. I said to Scheherazade,
You’re going to town tonight. Put some clothes on. Wear clothes
. But she forgot.”

“Lily too. No clothes.”

“You don’t make cultural distinctions. Keith, you should. These old guys have just come staggering out of the Middle Ages. Think. Imagine. You’re first-generation urban. With your wheelbarrow parked in the street. You’re having a little glass of something, trying to keep a grip. You look up and what do you get? Two nude blondes.”

“… Oh, Whittaker. It was so horrible. Out there. And not for the obvious reason.”

“What’s the non-obvious reason?”

“Shit. Men are so cruel. I can’t say it. You’ll see for yourself on the way back … Look! They’re still there!”

The young men of Montale were now on the other side of the window, stacked like silent acrobats, and a jigsaw of faces squirmed against the glass—strangely noble, priestlike faces, nobly suffering. One by one they started dropping back and peeling away. Whittaker said,

“What I don’t get is why the boys don’t act like that when
I
walk down the street. Why don’t the girls do jumping jacks when
you
walk down the street?”

“Yeah. Why don’t they?”

Four jars of beer were slewed out in front of them. Keith lit a Disque Bleu, adding its smoke to the sulphurous snorts and sneezes of the coffee machine, and the ambient mist of superstitious distrust: the bar-goers and their cataract gaze, seeing and dismissing, seeing and not believing …

“It’s your own fault,” said Whittaker. “Not content with being naked—you’re blondes.”

The girls were still quietly colouring and bristling, and blowing the stray strands from their brows. Scheherazade said,

“Well we’re sorry about that. And next time we’ll wear clothes.”

“And we’ll wear veils,” said Lily. “And why blondes?”

“See,” he went on, “blondes are the opposite of their pious ideal. This gets them thinking. Brunettes are hopeless—they’re Italians. They won’t fuck you unless you swear you’re going to marry them. But the blondes. Blondes’ll do
anything.”

Lily and Scheherazade were blondes, one a blue-eyed, one a brown—
they had the transparent complexions, the candour of blondes … Scheherazade’s face, Keith thought, now had about it a look of quiet surfeit, as if she had hurriedly but successfully eaten something rich and greedy. Lily seemed pinker, puffier, younger, the eyes inward, reminding him (as he kept wishing she wouldn’t) of his little sister; and her mouth looked taut and underfed. They were both making the same movement, beneath the brow of the table. Smoothing their dresses kneeward. But the dresses wouldn’t go.

“God, it’s almost worse in here,” said Scheherazade.

“No, it’s worse out there,” said Lily.

“Mm. At least in here they’re too old to leap up and down.”

“And too hoarse to yodel in your face.”

“They hate us in here. They want to lock us up.”

“They probably hate us out there too. But at least they want to fuck us.”

“I don’t know how to break this to you,” said Whittaker, “but they don’t want to fuck you out there either. They’re fruits. They’re all terrified. Listen. I’m friends with the top model in Milan. Valentina Casamassima. Also a blonde. When she comes to Rome or Naples and they all go crazy, she turns on the biggest guy there and says,
Come on, let’s fuck. I’ll suck your cock here in the street. I’m going down on you
right now.”

“And?”

“They quail. They back off. They crumple.”

Keith uneasily turned his head away. And felt a shadow cross the harlequinade—the harlequinade of his time. Near the centre of this shadow was Ulrike Meinhof, strolling nude in front of the Palestinian recruits
(Fucking and shooting
, she said—
they’re the same)
, and even further in there was Cielo Drive, and Pinkie and Charles. He said,

“That’s too high a price.”

“Meaning?”

“Well they’re not
really
trying to pull you, are they, Lily. I mean, that’s not how you set about it, is it. Their only hope,” he said, “is to stumble on a girl who dates football teams.” This was perhaps obscure (and they were staring at him), so he went on, “That’s what Nicholas calls them. My brother. I mean, there aren’t many of them, but they do exist. Girls who like dating football teams.”

“Ah,” said Lily, “but by pretending to like dating football teams, Valentina proves that they don’t even want girls who like dating football teams.”

“Exactly,” said Keith (who was in fact quite confused). “Still. Valentina. Girls outtoughing the boys like that. It’s …” It was what? Overexperienced. Uninnocent. Because the young men of Montale were at least innocent—even their cruelty was innocent. He said helplessly, “Italians are play-actors. It’s all a game anyway.”

“Well, Lily,” said Whittaker, “now you know what to do. When they whoop and leap, you know what to do.”

“Vow to go down on them.”

“Yeah. Vow to do that.”

“I was in Milan in the spring, with Timmy,” said Scheherazade, leaning back. “And you didn’t have to vow to go down on them. You got stares and whistles and that gurgly sound they make. It wasn’t a … a circus, like here.”

Yes, thought Keith, a circus—the highwire, the trapeze, the clowns, the tumblers.

“You didn’t get crowds. You didn’t get
queues.”

“Walking backward,” said Lily. Who now turned to Scheherazade, and said with a solicitous, almost a motherly urge, “Yes. But you didn’t look like you look now. In the spring.”

Whittaker said, “It isn’t that. It’s Franca Viola.”

S
o the three of them attended to Whittaker, with the reverence due to his horn-rimmed gaze, his fluent Italian, his years in Turin and Florence, and his unimaginable seniority (he was thirty-one). There was also the fact of Whittaker’s
orientation
. What was their attitude to homosexuals, around then? Well, they accepted them utterly, while also congratulating themselves, every couple of minutes, for being so amazingly tolerant. But they were moving beyond that now, and homosexuality had the glamour of the vanguard.

“Franca Viola. Incredible girl. She changed everything.”

And with a proprietorial air Whittaker told the tale. Franca Viola, Keith learnt, was a Sicilian teenager who had been kidnapped and raped by a rejected suitor. Which was one thing. But kidnap and rape, in Sicily, provided the alternative route to confetti and wedding bells. Whittaker said,

“Yeah, that’s right. What the penal code calls
matrimonio riparatore
. So, Keith, if you ever get tired of playing the guitar under the balcony
with a flower in your mouth, and if the jumping jacks don’t work, remember there’s always another way. Kidnap and rape … Marrying the rapist. That’s what Franca Viola’s family was telling her to do. But Franca didn’t go to the church. She went to the police station in Palermo. And then it was national news. Incredible girl. Her people still wanted her to marry the rapist. So did the village, so did the islanders, so did half the mainland. But she didn’t. She pressed charges.”

“I don’t understand,” said Scheherazade. “Why in the world would you marry the rapist? It’s prehistoric.”

“It’s tribal. Shame and honour. It’s like Afghanistan. Or Somalia. Marry the rapist, or your menfolk’ll kill you. She didn’t do that. She didn’t marry him—she put him
in jail
. And she changed everything. Now Milan and Turin are partly civilised. Rome is beginning to get better. Naples is still a nightmare. But all that shit is draining southward. Sicily will be the last to go. Franca was sixteen when it happened. Incredible girl.”

Keith was thinking that his sister Violet, another incredible girl, was also sixteen. In any kind of shame-and-honour arrangement, Violet would have been murdered long ago—by Keith himself, and his brother Nicholas, and his father, Karl, with the moral and logistical support of Uncle Mick and Uncle Brian. He said,

“What happened to her, Franca?”

“She got married properly a couple of months ago. To a lawyer. She’s your age now.” Whittaker shook his head. “Incredible girl. The balls on that girl. So when we go outside again, and the boys swoop down on you, you’ll have two choices. Go with Valentina Casamassima. Or think of Franca Viola.”

They drank one last beer and talked about the May Events, in France in 1968, and the Hot Autumn, in Italy in 1969—and the slogans. Never Work. Never trust anyone over twenty-five. Never trust anyone who hasn’t been to prison. The Personal is Political. When I think of revolution, I want to make love. It is forbidden to forbid.
Tutto e subito:
All and Now. The four of them agreed that they would settle for that. They would all now settle for All and Now.

“That’s how babies feel,” said Keith. “Apparently. They think: I am nothing and I should be everything.”

Then it came over them that it was now time to go, to go out there, and Whittaker said,

“Oh yeah. Another thing that drives them crazy is that you’re almost certainly on the Pill. They can’t get over it—what that means. Contraception is still illegal. And abortion. And divorce.”

“How do they get around that?” said Scheherazade.

“Easy. Hypocrisy,” said Lily. “Mistresses. Backstreet abortions …”

“How do they get around contraception?”

Whittaker said, “They’re meant to be great experts at coitus interruptus. Great artists of timely withdrawal. Oh, sure. I know what that means.”

“What?”

“They come up your arse.”

“Whittaker!”

“Or all over your face.”

“Whittaker!”

And Keith felt it again (he felt it several times a day): the tingle of licence. Everyone could swear now, if they wanted to. The word
fuck
was available to both sexes. It was like a sticky toy, and it was there if you wanted it. He said,

“Yeah, Whittaker, I’ve been meaning to ask you. You say
ass
just like we say
arse
. Without sounding the
r
—
ahce
. Lily and Scheherazade say it like that, but they grew up in England. Like you say
lahndscape
. And those
aunts
that bothered you at the picnic. Those aunts crawling up your shorts. That gave
me
the horrors. What’s that accent?”

“Boston Brahmin,” said Scheherazade. “Posher than the Queen. Now if we may be excused …”

As the girls moved off again Whittaker said,

“I think I see how it’s going to go. Out there. What happened? Earlier. Tell.”

“You know, boys are so cruel. And so fucking
rude.”
Keith said that the mimed rampage, out there, the sexual revolution, was also a kind of plebiscite. “On the girls. And guess who won. I found myself thinking, Would you please insult Lily too?”

“Mm. Would you have the common courtesy to treat Lily like a stripper in a bear pit?”

“Scheherazade’s the people’s choice. By acclamation … She’s transformed, isn’t she. I haven’t seen her for a few months, and I barely recognised her.”

“Scheherazade, in general, is absolutely glorious. But let’s face it. It’s her breasts.”

“… So you understand about Scheherazade’s breasts.”

“I like to think so. I paint, after all. And it’s not the size, is it. It’s almost despite the size. On that wandlike frame.”

“Yeah. Precisely so.”

“I read something the other day,” said Whittaker, “that made me warm to breasts. I saw them in a different light. In evolutionary terms, this guy says, breasts are there to imitate the arse.”

“The arse?”

“The breasts ape the arse. As an inducement to having sex face to face. When women evolved out of oestrus. You must know what oestrus is.”