The Woman of Rome (20 page)

On one of those evenings Giacinti expressed a desire to sleep with me in my bedroom; but I sent him away on the pretext that the neighbors would see him in the morning when he left. In truth, since that first evening my intimacy with him had taken not a single step forward, surely through no fault of mine. But the way he had behaved the first evening was the way he continued to comport himself to the day of his departure. He was really a man of little or no worth, at least in his emotional relationships; and all the sentiment I could feel for him, I had felt that first day as he slept: a generic feeling that may have had nothing to do with him at all. The idea of sleeping with such a man was repugnant to me; and I was afraid I would be bored, as well, for I was sure he would keep me up half the night to confide in me and talk about himself. He was unaware, however, of both my boredom and aversion, and left me convinced that, in those few days, he had rendered himself absolutely lovable in my eyes.

The day of my appointment with Gino came at last, and so much had happened in those ten days that I felt as if a hundred years had passed since I used to see him on my way to the studios, and worked to save money and set up house, and considered myself an engaged girl soon to be married. He was there very punctually at the appointed time, and as I got into the car he seemed disturbed and very pale. No one likes to have a betrayal discovered, not even
the boldest deceiver, and he must have thought a great deal and have had his suspicions during the ten days that had interrupted our usual meetings. But I showed no resentment and, as a matter of fact, I was not even pretending, because I felt perfectly serene; and when the bitterness of the first moment’s disillusionment had passed, I felt a kind of indulgent and skeptical fondness for him. After all, I still liked Gino, as I knew from the first glance I gave him, and this was saying a lot.

“So your confessor’s changed his mind?” he asked me after a while, as the car sped toward the villa. His tone was mocking but at the same time uncertain.

“No,” I answered simply, “I’ve changed my mind.”

“Have you finished all your work with your mother?”

“For the time being.”

“Strange.”

He did not know what he was saying, but he was obviously testing me to discover whether his suspicions were justified.

“Why is it strange?”

“I was just saying it for something to say.”

“Don’t you believe I’ve been busy?”

“I don’t believe anything.”

I had decided to shame him, but in my own way, by playing with him a little, like a cat with a mouse, without the brutal scenes Gisella had advised, which were not in harmony with my temperament.

“Are you jealous?” I asked him coyly.

“Me jealous? Good heavens!”

“Yes, you are — if you were sincere you’d admit it.”

He took the bait I was offering. “Anyone in my place would be jealous,” he said.

“Why?”

“Oh, come on! Did you think I would believe you? Such an important job that you couldn’t spare five minutes to see me!”

“It’s true, though,” I said calmly, “I’ve worked very hard.” And it was true — what else was it but work, and very tiring work, that I had been doing with Giacinti every evening? “And I’ve earned
enough to pay off the rest of the installments and buy my trousseau,” I added, making fun of myself. “So at last we’ll be able to get married without any debts.”

He said nothing; he was clearly trying to persuade himself of the truth of what I was saying, and was slowly abandoning his earlier suspicions. At that moment I made a gesture I had often made in the past. I flung my arms around his neck while he was driving and kissed him hard below the ear, whispering, “Why are you jealous? You know you’re the only man in my life.”

We reached the villa. Gino drove the car into the garden, shut the gate and went toward the tradesmen’s entrance with me. It was twilight and the first lights were already gleaming in the windows of the houses round about, red in the bluish mist of the winter evening. It was nearly dark in the underground passage and there was a smell of slops and stuffiness. I stopped.

“I don’t want to go to your room this evening,”-I said.

“Why not?”

“I want to make love in your mistress’s room.”

“You’re out of your mind!” he exclaimed in scandalized horror. We had often gone into the upper rooms, but had always made love in his room in the basement.

“It’s just a whim,” I said. “What does it matter to you?”

“It matters a lot — something might get broken — you never know — and if they notice, what’ll I do?”

“Oh what a tragedy!” I exclaimed lightly. “You’ll get fired, that’s all.”

“And you can say it just like that?”

“How should I say it? If you really loved me you wouldn’t think twice about it.”

“I do love you, but I can’t do this — let’s not even talk about it. I don’t want any trouble. I don’t.”

“We’ll be careful. They won’t notice.”

“No.”

I felt perfectly self-possessed. “I, who am your fiancée, ask you this one favor,” I exclaimed, continuing to pretend what I did not really feel, “and you refuse because you’re afraid I’ll put my body
where your mistress puts hers and lay my head where she lays hers — but what do you think? That she’s better than I am?”

“No, but —”

“I’m worth a thousand of her!” I went on. “But so much the worse for you. You can make love to your mistress’s pillows and sheets — I’m going!”

As I have already said, his respect and his subservience to his employers went very deep. He was nauseatingly proud of them, as if all their wealth were his, too. But seeing me speak in that way and turn away impetuously, with a determination he was not accustomed to find in me, he lost his head and ran after me.

“Wait a minute! Where are you going? I was just talking! Let’s go upstairs, if you want to!”

I let him plead with me a little more, pretending to be offended. Then I agreed and we went to the upper floor, our arms around one another, and stopping on each step for a kiss, just like the first time, but with a change of heart — at least, speaking for myself. In his mistress’s room I walked straight over to the bed and turned the covers down. He protested, once more mastered by fear. “You don’t mean to get under the sheets?”

“Why not?” I replied calmly. “I don’t want to get cold.”

He said nothing, visibly upset. When I had prepared the bed I went in to the bathroom, lit the gas and turned on the hot-water faucet, just a trickle, so that the bath would not fill too rapidly. Gino, uneasy and dissatisfied, followed me and protested once more.

“Having a bath, too?”

“They have a bath after they’ve made love, don’t they?”

“How should I know what they do?” he answered with a shrug. But I could see that in point of fact my boldness did not really displease him, he merely found it difficult to swallow. He was not a brave man and he liked to be on the right side of the law. But law-breaking attracted him all the more since he hardly ever allowed himself to slip. “You’re right, after all,” he said with a smile after a moment’s pause, wavering between temptation and reluctance, as he felt the mattress with his hand. “It’s comfortable here — better than in my room.”

“Didn’t I say so?”

We sat down together on the edge of the bed. “Gino,” I said, throwing my arms around his neck, “think how lovely it will be when we have a house of our own, just for the two of us.… It won’t be like this — but it’ll be our own.”

I do not know why I said this. Probably because I knew for certain by now that all those things were out of the question and I liked to prick the place my soul was sorest.

“Yes, yes,” he said, and kissed me.

“I know the kind of life I want,” I continued, with the cruel feeling that I was describing something lost and gone forever, “not a fine place like this — two rooms and a kitchen would be enough for me. But everything would be my own and it would shine like a mirror — and we’d be peaceful. We’d go out on Sunday together, eat together, sleep together. Oh, Gino, just think how lovely it’ll be!”

He said nothing. As a matter of fact, I remained quite unmoved as I said all this. I felt I was playing a part, like an actor on the stage. But this made it all the more bitter, because the cold, superficial part I was playing, which woke not the slightest echo of participation in my spirit, was what I had really been only ten days before. Meanwhile, while I was speaking, Gino undressed me impatiently. And I noticed once more, as I had when I got in the car, that I still liked him; perhaps my body, always ready to take pleasure from him, rather than my soul, which was by now estranged, made me so good-natured and quick to forgive. He caressed me and kissed me, and his caresses and kisses troubled my mind and the pleasure of my senses overcame the reluctance in my heart. “You make me die,” I finally murmured, wholly meaning it, falling onto the bed.

Later on I put my legs under the sheets and so did he, and we lay together with the embroidered cover of the magnificent bed pulled up to our chins. Over our head was suspended a kind of canopy with a cloud of white, gossamer veils floating down over the head of the bed. The whole room was white, with long, soft curtains at the windows, beautiful low furniture against the walls,
beveled mirrors, ornaments of glittering glass, marble, and silver. The exquisitely fine sheets were like a caress against my body; and, if I moved ever so slightly, the mattress yielded gently to my limbs and induced in me a deep desire for sleep and rest. Through the open door I could hear the quiet gurgling of the water flowing into the bath. I felt utterly content and not in the least resentful against Gino any longer. This seemed the best moment to tell him that I knew everything, because I was sure I would say it kindly, with no shadow of bitterness.

“So, Gino,” I said in caressing tones after a long silence, “your wife’s called Antonietta Partini.”

Perhaps he was drowsing, because he jumped violently as if someone had tapped him unexpectedly on the shoulder. “What’s that you said?”

“And your daughter’s name is Maria, isn’t it?”

He would have liked to protest again, but he looked into my eyes and realized it was useless. Our heads lay on the same pillow, our faces side by side, and I was speaking with my mouth almost on his. “Poor Gino,” I said, “why did you tell me so many lies?”

“Because I loved you,” he answered violently.

“If you really loved me, you ought to have thought how unhappy I’d be when I learned the truth, but you didn’t think of that, Gino, did you?”

“I loved you,” he interrupted me, “and I lost my head, and —”

“That’s enough,” I said. “I was very unhappy for a while — I didn’t think you capable of such a thing — now it’s over. Let’s not mention it again. Now I’m going to have a bath.” I pulled away the sheets, slipped out of bed and went into the bathroom. Gino stayed where he was.

The bath was full of hot water, a bluish color, lovely to see among all the white tiles and shining faucets. I stood in the bath and slowly let myself down into the steaming water. Lying in it, I shut my eyes. There was no sound from the next room; Gino must be thinking over what I had said and was trying to work out some plan whereby he could avoid losing me. I smiled at the thought of him in the big double bed, with my news still like a slap in the
face. But my smile was not spiteful; it was the sort of smile caused by something amusing but completely impersonal, because, as I have said, I felt no resentment toward him but, knowing him for what he really was, only a kind of fondness for him. Then I heard him walking about, probably dressing. After a while he peeped in at the bathroom door and looked at me like a whipped dog, as if he did not dare to enter.

“So we won’t be seeing anything more of each other,” he said humbly, after a long silence.

I realized that he really loved me in his own way, although not enough to make lying to me and deceiving me utterly repulsive. I remembered Astarita and the thought that he, too, loved me in his own way. “Why shouldn’t we?” I replied as I soaped one of my arms. “If I hadn’t wanted to see you, I wouldn’t have come today. We’ll still meet, but no so often as before.”

His courage seemed to return at these words. He came into the bathroom. “Shall I soap you?” he asked.

I could not help being reminded of Mother, who was also so full of attention and care for me each time she had renounced her parental authority.

“If you like,” I said shortly. “Soap my back where I can’t get at it.” Gino picked up the soap and sponge; I stood up and he washed my back. I looked at myself in a long mirror opposite the bath and imagined I was the lady who owned all those lovely things. She, too, must stand up like that, and a maid, some poor girl like myself, had to bend over and soap her and wash her, taking care not to scratch her skin. I thought how lovely it must be to be waited on by somebody else and not do everything with your own hands; to keep still and limp while she bustles about full of respectful attention. I remembered the simple idea I had had the first time I went to the villa; without my shabby clothes, naked, I was the equal of Gino’s mistress. But my fate, unfairly, was quite different.

“That’ll do,” I said to Gino in irritation.

He picked up the bathrobe and I got out of the bath; he then held it out behind me and I wrapped myself in it. He wanted to embrace me, perhaps to see whether I would repel him, and I let
him kiss my neck as I stood there, motionless, wrapped in the bathrobe. Then he began to dry me all over, in silence, starting with my feet and going all the way to my breasts, eagerly and ably as if he had never done anything else in his life, and I shut my eyes and imagined once again that I was the mistress and he the maid. He took my passivity for acquiescence and I suddenly discovered that instead of drying me he was caressing me. At that I pushed him away, let the bathrobe fall, and went on tiptoe barefooted into the next room. Gino stayed in the bathroom to let the water out.

I dressed quickly and then walked around the room looking at the furniture. I stopped in front of the dressing table dotted with pieces of gold and tortoiseshell. Among the hairbrushes and perfume-bottles I noticed a gold powder compact. I picked it up and looked at it closely. It was heavy, apparently made of solid gold. It was square, of rolled gold in stripes, and a large ruby was set in the catch. I had a feeling of discovery, rather than of temptation — now I could do anything, even steal. I opened my bag and put the compact into it; being heavy it slipped right down into the bottom among my loose change and keys. In taking it, I felt a kind of sensual pleasure, not unlike the sensation accepting money from my lovers caused me. As a matter of fact, I did not have any use for such a valuable compact, it did not match my clothes or the kind of life I led. I was sure I would never use it. But in stealing it, I seemed to be obeying the logic that now governed the course of my life. I thought I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.