The Woman of Rome (25 page)

“Who did you go with?” he asked.

“With my mother.”

He began to laugh so unpleasantly that I was astonished.

“Mother,” he repeated, dwelling on the
m
sound. “
Mama
 … There’s always a
mama
 … a
mama
.… What will
Mama
say? What will
Mama
do?
Mama, mama
.”

I thought that perhaps he had some hidden reason for feeling resentful toward his own mother. “Did your mother do anything to hurt you?” I asked.

“No, she didn’t do anything,” he replied. “Mothers never do anything. Who hasn’t got a mother? Do you love your mother?”

“Of course — why?”

“Oh, nothing,” he replied hastily. “Don’t pay any attention to me.… Go on.… So, you used to go out with your mother —”

The tone of his voice was neither reassuring nor inviting. But still I felt impelled to continue my reminiscences, partly out of liking for him, partly out of self-interest.

“Yes, we used to go out together, especially in the summer, because our apartment is stifling then.… Look — you see that little villa over there?”

He stood still and looked. But the windows of the villa were shut; it looked quite uninhabited. It seemed smaller than I remembered it and rather ugly and forbidding, cramped between the long, low railwaymen’s houses. “Well, what about it?”

I felt almost ashamed now of what I was about to say.

“I used to pass by that villa every evening,” I continued with an effort, “and the windows were open because it was summer, as I said. I used to watch a family sitting down to a meal, then —” I stopped, feeling suddenly embarrassed.

“And?”

“You aren’t interested in all this,” I said, and felt I was being both sincere and cunning in my shamefacedness.

“Why? Everything interests me.”

“Well, then,” I went on hurriedly, “I got the idea firmly fixed in my head that one day I would have a little house like that and would do just the things I used to see that family doing.”

“Oh, I see!” he exclaimed. “A little house like that — you didn’t aim very high.”

“It’s not so bad in comparison with the house we live in now,” I said, “and, you know, at that age you get so many ideas in your head.”

He pulled me toward the villa by one arm. “Let’s go and see if that family still lives there.”

“What’s the matter with you?” I said. “Of course, they’re still there.”

“All right, let’s see.”

We were just outside the villa. The narrow, overgrown garden was dark, the windows, the little tower, all dark. He went up to the gate. “There’s even a mailbox,” he said. “Let’s ring and see if anyone’s in. Still — this little house of yours looks empty.”

“No, don’t!” I said laughing. “Don’t do anything. What’s got into you?”

“Let’s try.” He lifted his hand and pressed the doorbell.

I felt like running away, afraid someone might turn up. “Let’s go, let’s go!” I begged him. “Now they’ll look out the window, and what kind of fools will they take us for?”

“What will
Mama
say, eh?” he repeated like a refrain, letting me tug him away. “What will
Mama
do?”

“You sure have something against mothers!” I said, walking fast.

We had reached the amusement park. Last time I had gone there I remembered there had been a huge crowd of people jostling one another, festoons of colored lamps, stalls with their acetylene lights, decorations in the booths, music, and noise. I was a little disappointed at finding nothing of all this. The fence appeared to surround a dark, deserted dumping ground for building materials, rather than an amusement park. The arches of the switchbacks, with an occasional seat still suspended here and there, appeared over the top of the fence, looking like gross-bellied insects whose flight had been suspended by a sudden paralysis. The low, pointed roofs of the rain-soaked, unlighted booths gave an impression of sleep. Everything seemed dead, as was right, since it was winter. The open space in front of the amusement park was deserted and covered with puddles. One single streetlamp shed a faint light.

“This is Luna Park in summer,” I said. “There’s always a huge crowd. But it isn’t open in winter. Where shall we go?”

“What about that café over there?”

“It’s a tavern, really.”

“Let’s go to the tavern, then.”

We passed beneath the city gate and saw an illuminated glass
door facing us on the ground floor of a row of little houses. I only realized when I was inside that it was the café where I had had a meal with Mother and Gino, and Gino had told the insolent, drunk to mind his own business. There were only two or three people seated, eating food out of newspaper on the marble-topped tables, and drinking the host’s wine. It was colder inside than out; the air smelled of rain, wine, and sawdust and the stoves appeared to have gone out. We sat in a corner and he ordered a liter of wine.

“Who’s going to drink a liter?” I asked.

“Why? Don’t you drink?”

“Only a little.”

He poured himself a full glass and tossed it down in one gulp, but with an effort and no pleasure. This gesture confirmed in me what I had already noticed about him — he did everything as an act of will, from the outside, without taking any part in what he was doing, as if he were acting. We remained silent for a while; he kept staring at me with his bright, intense gaze, and I looked around the room. The memory of that distant evening in the tavern with Mother and Gino returned to me, and I was uncertain whether what I was feeling was regret or irritation. I had been very happy then, certainly; but how deluded! At last I came to the conclusion inside myself that it was exactly like opening a drawer left untouched for years, and instead of finding in it all the lovely things you had hoped for, you find only a few rags, moths, and dust. Everything had come to an end, not only my love for Gino, but youth itself and all its disappointed dreams. The truth of this was clearly shown by the fact that I had been able to make use of my memories, knowingly and calculatingly, in order to move my companion.

“At first I didn’t like that friend of yours who was with us,” I said, apropos of nothing, “but now I’m almost fond of him — he’s so cheerful.”

“First, he’s not a friend of mine,” he answered abruptly, “and then — he’s not at all likable.”

I was astonished at the violence of his tone. “Don’t you think so?” I asked mildly.

He took a drink and continued. “You ought to avoid witty people like the plague — there’s usually nothing underneath all their wit. You ought to see him in his office! He’s not witty there.”

“What sort of office?”

“I don’t know — a patent office —”

“Does he make a lot of money?”

“A lot.”

“Lucky fellow!”

He poured out some wine for me. “Why do you go around with him if you dislike him so much?” I asked.

“He’s a childhood friend,” he said, making a face. “We went to school together — all childhood friends are like that.”

He drank again and added, “Still, he’s better than me in some ways.”

“Why?”

“When he does anything he does it in earnest, but in my case, first I want to do it and then —” his voice broke off suddenly into a falsetto and I started, amazed “— when it comes to the point I don’t do it. This evening, for instance.… He phoned me and asked me if I wanted to, you know, go after women.… I agreed, and when we met you, I really wanted to make love to you. But then, when we got back to your place, all my desire vanished —”

“Vanished —” I repeated, looking at him.

“Yes. You no longer seemed to be a woman in my eyes — you seemed an object, a thing — you remember when I twisted your finger and hurt you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I did it to find out if you really existed — like that — even by making you feel pain.”

“Yes, I existed all right,” I said smiling. “You hurt me a lot.” Now I began to understand, and it was a relief, that it was not because he disliked me that he had not wanted me. But in any case, there is never anything strange about people. As soon as you try to understand them, you find that their behavior, however unusual, is always due to some perfectly plausible motive. “So you didn’t like me?”

He shook his head. “Not really — you or any other girl would have been just the same thing.”

“Look here,” I asked after a moment’s hesitation, “you aren’t impotent, by any chance?”

“Good God, no!”

I now felt a pressing desire to be intimate with him, to bridge the gap between us, to love him and be loved by him. I had denied that his refusal had offended me, but actually, if not offended, I was indeed hurt and wounded in my pride. I knew I was beautiful and attractive and I did not believe he had any valid reason for not desiring me.

“Listen,” I said simply, “let’s finish our wine and then go home and make love.”

“No, it’s out of the question.”

“Then you mean I didn’t attract you even when you saw me in the street the first time.”

“It isn’t that — but do try to understand.”

I knew no man can resist certain arguments. “Obviously I don’t attract you,” I repeated simply, feigning bitterness, and at the same time I stretched out my hand and caressed his face with my palm. My hands are long, large, and warm; and if it is true that a person’s character can be seen in her hand, there can be nothing vulgar about mine, as there is in Gisella’s, whose hands are red, rough, and shapeless. I began to stroke his cheek, his temples, his forehead beneath his hair, looking at him all the time with an insistent, yearning sweetness. I remembered Astarita had done this to me at the Ministry, and I realized once more that I was truly in love. At first he remained still and unmoved by my caresses; then his chin began to tremble, a sign in him, as I noticed later, that he was excited, and an extremely youthful expression of distress, just like a boy’s, was stamped on his face; I was filled with pity for him and was glad of this pity because it meant I was getting in touch with him.

“What are you doing?” he murmured. “We’re in public.”

“What do I care?” I answered unconcernedly.

My cheeks were burning despite the cold in the tavern, and I was surprised at seeing a little cloud of steam issue from our
mouths at every breath. “Give me your hand,” I said. Unwillingly he let me take it and I lifted it to my face, saying, “Feel how my cheeks are burning?”

He made no reply, only looked at me, his chin quivering. Someone came in, making the glass doors rattle, and I withdrew my hand. He sighed with relief and poured himself some wine. But as soon as the intruder had passed us, I stretched out my hand again and slipping it between the edges of his jacket I unbuttoned his shirt and touched his bare chest near his heart. “I want to warm my hand,” I said, “and I want to feel your heart beating.” I turned my hand over, touched him with the back of it, and then with the palm again.

“Your hand’s cold,” he said, looking at me.

“It’ll get warm now,” I smiled. I stretched out my arm and slowly passed my hand over his chest and thin ribs. I felt profoundly happy because I knew he was near me, and I was filled with love for him, so much love of my own that I had no need of his. “It won’t be long before I kiss you,” I warned him jokingly as I gazed at him.

“No, no!” he objected, trying to laugh, too, but really alarmed. “Try to control yourself!”

“Let’s leave here, then.”

“All right, let’s go, if you want to.”

He paid for the liter of wine he had not finished drinking and left the tavern with me. He now seemed aroused in his own way, but not through love, as I was, but rather through some strange ferment that the events of the evening had stirred up in his mind. Later, when I knew him better, I discovered that the same excitement always overtook him whenever, for some reason or other, he came across some hitherto unknown aspect of his character or was strengthened in his knowledge of it. For he was very self-centered — though in a lovable way — or rather, he was self-absorbed.

“It’s always like this with me,” he began, as if talking to himself, while I took him home almost at a running pace. “I have a great longing to do something, am filled with enthusiasm, everything seems flawless; I feel sure I’ll act as I mean to and then, when I really
have to act, everything collapses and I cease to exist — I become cold, idle, cruel — like I was when I twisted your finger.”

He was talking absentmindedly in a kind of monologue, possibly with a kind of bitter complacency. But I was not listening to him because I was so full of joy, and I sped across the puddles on winged feet. “You’ve already told me all this,” I said gaily, “but I haven’t told you what I feel.… I want to hug you close, to warm you against my body, to feel you beside me and make you do what you don’t want to do.… I won’t be happy until you have.”

He said nothing. He did not even seem to hear what I was saying, he was so deeply absorbed in thinking over what he had said himself. Suddenly I slipped my arm around his waist. “Put your arm around my waist, won’t you?” I said.

He appeared not to have heard me, so I took his arm and, managing as best I could, as one does when slipping on a coat, I put his arm around my waist. We went on walking awkwardly because we were both wearing heavy winter coats and our arms could hardly reach around each others’ waists.

When we were below the tower of the little villa I stood still. “Give me a kiss,” I said.

“Later,” he replied.

“Give me a kiss.”

He turned and I kissed him violently, placing my two arms around his neck. His lips were closed but I thrust my tongue between them and then between his teeth, which he finally unclenched. I was not sure he was returning my kiss, but I did not mind. Then we drew apart and I saw a great crooked red patch of lipstick around his mouth that made his serious face look oddly funny. I burst into happy laughter.

“Why are you laughing?” he murmured.

I hesitated, then decided not to tell him the truth, because I enjoyed seeing him hurrying along beside me so earnestly, quite unaware of that patch on his face.

“Oh, nothing,” I said. “Because I’m happy — don’t think about me.” And I gave him another rapid kiss on the mouth, feeling on top of the world.