The Woman of Rome (23 page)

Quite often I had no desire to go down into the streets to pick up men, so I stayed at home. I did not want to stay with Mother, because although we had a tacit agreement not to mention my profession, our conversation always came around to it, in awkward allusions, and I would almost have preferred to talk of it openly without concealment. Instead, I used to shut myself up in my room, warning Mother not to disturb me, and stretched myself out on the bed. My room looked onto the courtyard, through the closed window no noise reached me from outside. I used to doze for a while, then got up and wandered around the room, busy with some little task, tidying my things or dusting the furniture. These jobs were nothing more than a stimulus to set my mind working, an attempt to create an atmosphere of intense and secluded intimacy. I used to become more and more deeply immersed in my reflections, until in the end I hardly thought at all, and was content with feeling alive after so much wasted time and exhausting ways.

At a certain moment during the hours I spent in such seclusion a profound feeling of bewilderment always overcame me; I suddenly seemed to see the whole of my life and all of myself from all sides, with icy clearsightedness. The things I was doing split apart, lost the substance of their meaning, were reduced to mere incomprehensible, absurd externals. I used to say to myself, “I often bring home a man who has been waiting for me in the night, without knowing me. We struggle with one another on this bed, clutching each other like two sworn enemies. Then he gives me a piece of printed, colored paper. Next day I exchange this paper for food, clothes, and other articles.” But these words were only the first step in a process of deeper bewilderment. They served to clear my mind of the censure, always lying in wait there, of my profession, and they showed me my work as a series of meaningless gestures, similar in every way to the routine motions of other professions. Immediately afterward a distant sound in the city or the creaking of some piece of furniture in the room gave me a ludicrous and almost delirious awareness of my existence. I said to myself, “Here I am and I might be elsewhere. I might exist a thousand years ago or in a thousand years’ time. I might be black or old, blonde or
short.” I thought how I had come out of endless night and would soon go on into another endless darkness, and that my brief passing was marked only by absurd and trivial actions. I then understood that my anguish was caused, not by what I was doing, but more profoundly by the bare fact of being alive, which was neither good nor evil but only painful and without meaning.

This bewilderment used to make my flesh crawl with fear; I would shudder uncontrollably, feeling my hair stand on end, and suddenly the walls of my apartment, the city, and even the world seemed to vanish, leaving me suspended in dark, empty, endless space — suspended, what’s more, in the same clothes, with the same memories, name, and profession. A girl called Adriana suspended in nothingness. This nothingness seemed to me something terrible, solemn, and incomprehensible, and the saddest aspect of the whole matter was my meeting this nothingness with the manners and outward appearance with which I met Gisella in the evening in the pastry shop where she waited for me. I found no consolation in the thought that other people also acted and moved in just as futile and inadequate a way under that nothingness, within that nothingness, surrounded by that nothingness. I was only amazed at their not noticing it, or not making their observations known, not referring more often to it, as usually happens when many people discover the same fact at once.

At these times I used to throw myself onto my knees and pray, perhaps more through a habit formed in childhood than from conscious will. But I did not use the words of the usual prayers, which seemed too long to my sudden mood. I used to throw myself onto my knees so violently that my legs hurt for some days afterward and pray aloud, “Christ have mercy on me,” in a shrill and desperate voice. It was not really a prayer but a magic formula that I thought might dispel my anguish and bring me back to reality. After having cried out impulsively in this way, with all my strength, I remained for some time with my face in my hands, utterly absorbed. At last I would become aware that my mind was a blank, that I was bored, that I was the same Adriana as ever, that I was in my own room. I touched my body half astonished at finding
it whole, and getting up from my knees I slipped into bed. I felt very tired and ached all over, as if I had fallen down a rocky slope, and I went to sleep immediately.

These states of mind, however, had no influence at all on my daily life. I went on being the same Adriana, with the same character, who took men home for money, went about with Gisella, and talked of unimportant things with my own mother and with everyone else. And I thought it was strange that I was so different alone, in my relationship with myself, from what I was in company and with other people. But I did not flatter myself that I was the only one to have such violent and desperate feelings. I imagined everyone, at least once a day, must feel his own life reduced to a single point of absurd, ineffable anguish — only their knowledge apparently produced no visible effect upon them either. They left their homes, as I did, and went around sincerely playing their insincere parts. This thought strengthened me in my belief that all men, without exception, deserve to be pitied, if only because they are alive.

PART II

1

B
Y NOW GISELLA AND I
were partners more than friends. We did not agree about the places to frequent, it is true, for Gisella preferred restaurants and fashionable haunts, while I preferred simple cafés and even the street; but we managed to come to an agreement even over this difference in taste: we used to go to the different places in turn. One evening, after we had dined in vain at a restaurant, we were on our way home when I became aware that a car was following us. I warned Gisella that we might have customers if we let them approach us. She was in an angry mood that evening, because she had had to pay for her supper without getting anything out of it and she had been extremely hard-up for some time. “You go,” she replied rudely. “I’m going home to bed.” Meanwhile the car had come up close to the curb and was keeping level with us at reduced speed. Gisella was near the wall and I was on the outside. I looked out of the corner of my eye and saw there were two men in the car.

“What shall we do?” I asked Gisella in a whisper. “If you don’t come, I won’t go either.”

She in her turn cast a surreptitious glance at the car and, for a moment, she seemed to hesitate, still in a foul temper. “I’m not coming,” she said finally. “You go. Are you scared?”

“No, but I’m not going unless you come, too.”

She shook her head, glanced once more at the car, which was still keeping pace with us, and then, as if suddenly making up her mind, said, “All right.… But pretend nothing’s up and we’ll lead them on for a while.… I don’t like picking them up here in the Corso.”

We walked along for fifty yards or so, the car keeping alongside us the whole time. Then Gisella, reaching a corner, turned up into a dark and narrow side street with a narrow pavement running beside an old wall covered with posters. We heard the car turn on to the side street, too, and then the blinding white rays from the headlights fell on us. We felt as though the light stripped us naked and nailed us both against the damp wall, with its torn, faded advertisements; and we stood still. Gisella said to me in an irritable whisper, “What’s this all about? Didn’t they get a good enough look at us in the Corso? I’ve half a mind to go home —”

“No, no, don’t!” I pleaded hastily. I did not know why myself, but I was extremely anxious to meet the two men in the car. “What does it matter? They all act this way.”

She shrugged her shoulders and at the same time the headlights wavered and went out, and the car stopped by the pavement in front of us. The driver thrust a blond head and rosy face out the window.

“Good evening!” he said in a ringing voice.

“Good evening,” replied Gisella, with great dignity.

“Where are you going to all on your lonesome?” he continued. “Can’t we keep you company?”

He spoke in the ironical tones of a person who thinks he is being witty, but these were hackneyed phrases I had already heard hundreds of times before.

“That all depends —” replied Gisella, still very dignified. She, too, always made the same replies.

“Oh, come on, now!” insisted the man in the car. “Depends on what?”

“How much will you give us?” asked Gisella, going up to the car and putting her hand on the door.

“How much do you want?”

Gisella named a sum. “You’re expensive!” he chirped. “Very expensive!” But he seemed inclined to accept. His friend, whose face was concealed, leaned forward and whispered something in his ear. But the fair young man shrugged his shoulders and then turning to us, said, “All right — get in.”

His friend opened the door, got out and went to sit in the back of the car; he then opened the door on my side and invited me to get in beside him. Gisella sat with the blond young man. He turned to her. “Where shall we go?”

“To Adriana’s,” she answered and gave him the address.

“That’s fine,” said the blond. “Let’s go to Adriana’s”

Usually when I was with one of these men I did not know, in a car or elsewhere, I kept motionless and silent, waiting for them to speak or do something. I knew from experience that they are impatient to take the initiative and do not need any encouragement. That evening, too, I kept still and dumb while the car made its way through the city. All I could see of my neighbor, who was designated by the arrangement of places as my lover for the night, were his long, thin, white hands lying on his knees. He did not speak or move either, and his head was in shadow. I thought perhaps he was shy and suddenly felt attracted to him. I had been shy, too, and shyness always moved me, because it reminded me of what I had been like before I met Gino. Gisella was talking, though. She liked to talk politely of inconsequential matters as long as she could, just like a lady in the company of men who respect her.

“Is this your car?” I heard her ask.

“Yes,” answered her companion. “I haven’t pawned it yet … Do you like it?”

“It’s very comfortable,” said Gisella composedly, “but I prefer a Lancia — they’re quicker and the springs are better. My fiancé has a Lancia.”

This was true — Riccardo had a Lancia. Only he had never been Gisella’s fiancé, and Gisella and he had not been meeting for some time now. The young man began to laugh. “Your fiancé’s got a Lancia that goes on two wheels!” he said.

Gisella was very touchy and the slightest remark made her angry. “Look here,” she said resentfully, “what do you take us for?”

“I don’t know — tell me who you are,” said the blond. “I don’t want to make any false steps.”

Another of Gisella’s obsessions was to pass herself off as something she was not with her pick-up lovers — as a dancer, a typist, or a respectable lady. She did not realize that her claims were completely contradicted by the fact that she let herself be so easily approached and always mentioned the money part of the business immediately. “We’re two dancers in the Caccini company,” she said haughtily. “We’re not in the habit of going out with the first man who turns up. But since the company isn’t properly set up yet, we were just going for a little walk this evening. As a matter of fact, I didn’t want to accept your offer — but my friend said you looked like distinguished people. If my fiancé got to know, I’d never hear the end of it.”

The blond laughed again. “We’re certainly two very distinguished people! But you’re two whores off the street … so what’s the problem?”

My neighbor spoke for the first time. “Shut up, Giancarlo,” he said in an even voice.

I said nothing. I did not like being given that name, because of the malicious intention that prompted it, but after all, it was the truth.

“First of all, it isn’t true,” said Gisella, “and what’s more, you’re a creep.”

The blond said nothing. But he slowed down at once and then brought the car to a standstill beside the curb. We were in a deserted and dimly lit side street with houses on either side. He turned to Gisella.

“What if I were to dump you out of the car?”

“Just try!” said Gisella, drawing back. She was very spirited and was not afraid of anyone.

At this, my neighbor leaned forward toward the front seat, and I saw his face. He was dark, with a shock of hair falling over his high forehead, large, dark, bulging eyes, a clear-cut nose, curving lips, and an ugly, receding chin. He was very thin, his Adam’s apple showed above his collar. “Are you going to shut up or not?” he said to the blond, emphatically but patiently, and it seemed to me as if he were intervening in some affair that did not really concern him at all. His voice was neither deep nor very masculine; it sounded as though it might easily break into a falsetto.

“What’s it got to do with you?” asked his friend, turning around. He said it in an odd kind of voice, however, as if he were ashamed already of his own coarseness and was not sorry his friend had intervened.

My neighbor continued. “What sort of behavior is this? We invited them — they trusted themselves with us — and now we’re insulting them!” He turned toward Gisella. “Don’t take any notice of him,” he added kindly. “Perhaps he’s had a drop too much to drink! I’m sure he didn’t mean to offend you.” The blond made a gesture of protest, but his companion stopped him by putting a hand on his arm and saying peremptorily, “You’ve had too much to drink, I tell you, and you didn’t mean to insult her — now let’s go.”

“I didn’t come here to be insulted,” said Gisella quaveringly. She, too, seemed grateful to the dark man for his intervention.

“Of course! No one likes to be insulted — of course they don’t!” he said.

The blond was gazing at them, with a stupid look on his red face, which seemed swollen and bruised in patches. He had round gray-blue eyes and his large red mouth looked greedy and uncontrolled. He gazed at his friend, who was patting Gisella’s shoulder soothingly, and finally burst into sudden laughter. “Word of honor!” he exclaimed. “I don’t understand a thing. Where are we? Why are we fighting? I can’t even remember how it all began. Instead of having a good time, here we are quarreling — word of honor, it’s enough to drive you crazy!” He was roaring with laughter and still laughing turned to Gisella. “Come on, beautiful,” he said, “don’t look at me like that — we were really made for each other.”