The Woman of Rome (32 page)

I switched the light off once more, and, counting my steps, went back to bed. Before falling asleep, the thought came to me that although I certainly could not bring the jeweler back to life, I could save, or try to save, the maid, and this was the only thing that mattered. It was all the more my duty now that I had discovered I was not as good as I had always believed myself to be. Or at least my goodness did not exclude a taste for blood, admiration of violence, and delight in crime.

4

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING I
dressed carefully, put the compact into my purse, and went out to telephone Astarita. I felt strangely lighthearted; the anguish Sonzogno’s revelations had caused me the evening before had entirely vanished. I have many times in my life since noticed that vanity is the worst enemy of charity and moral reproof. What I now felt, instead of fear and horror, was a kind of vanity at the thought that I was the only one in town who knew how the crime had been committed and who had done it. I said to myself, “I know who killed the jeweler” and seemed to look at people and things with different eyes from the day before. I imagined there must even be some change in my features, and I was almost afraid that Sonzogno’s secret could be read in the expression of my face. At the same time, I felt a mild, pleasant, irresistible longing to tell someone what I knew. The secret overflowed from my heart like too much water from a small vessel, and I was tempted to pour it out to someone else. I suppose this is the chief reason why so many criminals tell their sweethearts
or wives about the crimes they have committed; then the women tell it to their best friend and the best friend tells someone else, until it reaches the ears of the police and brings about the ruin of all of them. But I think, too, that in speaking of their crimes the criminals are trying to free themselves of an intolerable burden by making others share it. Just as if guilt were something that could be parceled out and borne by many until it becomes slight and unimportant, and not, as it really is, a load that cannot be transferred, whose weight is never lessened by being shared by others, but on the contrary increases with the number of those who bear it.

As I walked through the streets in search of a public telephone, I bought a couple of newspapers and looked for further details of the crime in Via Palestro. But some days had already passed; I could only find a few disappointing lines under the subhead
NO CLUES IN JEWELER’S DEATH
. I realized that unless he made some clumsy mistake, Sonzogno would never be discovered. The illegal character of the victim’s business made police inquiries extremely difficult. As the papers said, the jeweler had secret and inadmissible contacts with people of all classes and conditions; the murderer might have been someone he had never seen before, who had killed him on an impulse. This explanation was nearest to the truth. But for the very reason that this was perfectly true, the police had obviously given up any hope of discovering the murderer.

I found a public telephone in a little restaurant and dialed Astarita’s number. I had not phoned him for at least six weeks and I must have surprised him because at first he did not recognize my voice and spoke to me in the businesslike tones he used in the office. For a moment I even had an idea that he did not want to have anything more to do with me; and to tell the truth, my heart missed a beat at the thought of the maid in prison and the bad luck of Astarita’s ceasing to love me just when his intervention was necessary in order to save the poor woman. My dismay, however, was mixed with pleasure, because, by restoring to me my lost sense of goodness, it made me see that the woman’s release really mattered to me and that, despite my intimacy with the murderer Sonzogno, I was still the same gentle, compassionate Adriana I had always been.

Frightened, I gave Astarita my name and was relieved to hear the tone of his voice change on the instant; it became troubled and eager, and he stumbled over his words. I must admit that I almost felt an impulse of affection for him then, because a love of that kind, which is always flattering to a woman, reassured me and filled me with momentary gratitude. I made an appointment in caressing tones; he promised to come without fail, and I left the restaurant.

It had been raining hard all night as I suffered from my nightmares; often in my sleep I had heard the hiss of rain mingling with the howling wind to form a kind of wall of bad weather around the house, increasing the solitude and intimacy of the darkness in which I struggled. But the rain had stopped toward morning and the last gusts of wind had found strength to sweep away the clouds, leaving a limpid sky and the air clean and still. After phoning Astarita, I began to walk along an avenue of plane trees in the early morning sun. A slight dizziness was all that remained of my disturbed night and it soon passed in the cool air. I gloried in the lovely day and everything I saw had a quality of charm about it that delighted and attracted me. I admired the trunks of the plane trees, with their bark of overlapping white, green, yellow, and brown scales that seemed gold from a distance; I admired the rings of dampness that remained around the edges of the dry paving stones; I admired the houses which bore traces of the night’s downpour in great patches of damp on their facades; I admired the passersby, men hurrying to their work, maids carrying shopping bags, boys and girls with books and satchels holding their parents’ or elder brothers’ hands. I stopped to give alms to an old beggar and while I was hunting for some money in my bag, I realized I was gazing fondly at his old military cloak and delighting in the patches at the elbows and around the collar. There were gray, brown, yellow, and faded green patches, and I loved observing the colors and seeing how well sewn they were, with big stitches in black cotton. I surprised myself imagining how he must have worked one of these mornings, cutting away the worn parts with a pair of scissors, contriving a patch from some old rag, fitting it over the hole, sewing
it lovingly. Those patches gave me as much pleasure as the sight of newly baked bread gives a hungry man, and as I left him, I could not help looking back at them again and again. I suddenly thought how wonderful it would be to live a life as limpid, clear, and lovely as that morning was. A life that had been washed clean of all its muddy aspects, where even the humblest thing might be looked at fondly. My desire, so long dormant and unexpressed, for a normal family life, with just one man and a new, clean, neat, shining house, was revived by the thought. I realized I did not like my work, although by a strange contradiction I was designed for it by nature. It did not seem to me to be clean; my body, my fingers, my bed, seemed to have a perpetual aura of sweat, sperm, impure warmth, sticky emanations about them, no matter how much I washed myself and straightened up my room. And the very fact of dressing and undressing almost every day under the eyes of different men prevented me from looking upon my own body with the sense of pleasure and intimacy I would have enjoyed, which I remembered feeling as a young girl when I looked at myself in the mirror or in the bath. It is lovely to be able to look at your own body as at something new and unknown, which grows, becomes stronger and more beautiful of its own accord. In order to give my lovers this impression of novelty each time, I had deprived myself of it forever.

In the light of these reflections, Sonzogno’s crime, Gino’s wickedness, the maid’s misfortunes and all the other intrigues I was involved in appeared to be the consequences of my own disorderly life. Consequences, however, without any particular meaning, which burdened me with no sense of sin and could be set aside as soon as I was able to satisfy my old aspirations for a regular life. I experienced an overwhelming desire to straighten out my life in every way, and to come to terms with morality, which condemned a profession like mine; with nature, which intended a woman of my age to bear children; with material desire, which dictated a life lived among beautiful things, lovely new clothes and light, clean, comfortable houses. The problem was that one thing excluded the other; if I chose to align myself with morality, I could not at the same
time follow the dictates of nature; and material desire contradicted both morality and nature. The usual lifelong irritation filled me at knowing myself to be in debt to necessity and incapable of satisfying its demands except by sacrificing my highest aims. But I realized once again that I had not yet accepted my fate entirely and this gave me some hope, since I thought that as soon as I had an opportunity of changing my life, I would not let myself by taken unawares, and I could take advantage of it consciously and decisively.

I had made the appointment with Astarita for midday as soon as he left the office. I had an hour or two to wait, so having nothing to do I decided to go and see Gisella. I had not seen her for some time and I imagined someone must have taken the place in her life that had previously been filled by Riccardo, someone halfway between a fiancé and a lover. Gisella, too, hoped to straighten out her life one day. I suppose this hope is common to all women of my kind. But I was inclined to it by nature, whereas in Gisella, who thought worldly considerations of supreme importance, it was above all a matter of social decorum. She was ashamed for other people to take her for what she really was, although her vocation for her profession was far deeper than mine. I was not at all ashamed; I only felt an occasional sense of servitude and betrayal of my own nature.

When I reached Gisella’s house, I started to go upstairs. But the concierge called out to me, “Are you going up to see Signorina Gisella? She doesn’t live here now.”

“Where’s she gone?”

“Number seven, Via Casablanca.” This was a new street in one of the new districts. “A blond man with a car came and they took her stuff and went away.”

I realized immediately that this was just what I had been expecting to hear — that she had left with a man. I do not know why, but suddenly I felt tired, my legs were trembling and I had to lean against the doorpost to keep from falling. But I recovered and decided after a moment’s thought to go and call on Gisella at her new address. I hailed a taxi and told the driver to take me to Via Casablanca.

As the taxi sped along, we left the center of the town and its rows of old houses crowded close together in the narrow streets. The streets grew wider, branched off, converged in open squares, became wider and wider. The houses were new and here and there I caught a glimpse of the green countryside between them. I felt that my journey had some hidden, extremely painful meaning, and I became sadder with every passing moment. I suddenly remembered the efforts Gisella had made to deprive me of my innocence and make me like herself; and I began to cry as instinctively as a wound bleeds.

When I got out of the taxi at the end of the journey, my eyes were shining, my cheeks wet. “You shouldn’t cry, miss,” the driver said. I only shook my head and went toward the entrance of Gisella’s house.

It was a little white building, in modern style, and had evidently been erected quite recently; barrels, tools, and beams were piled up in the barren little garden and splashes of whitewash showed on the bars of the gate. I entered a bare white hall and saw a white stairway with opalescent windows through which filtered a peaceful light. The porter, a redheaded youth in workmen’s overalls, quite different from the usual old and dirty porters one sees, showed me into the elevator. I pressed the switch and the elevator began to ascend; it smelled pleasantly of new, highly polished wood. There seemed to be something new in the very hum of the machinery; it was like a mechanism that had been functioning for only a short time. The elevator rose to the top floor and as it went up, the light increased. It was as though there was no ceiling and the elevator was going right up into the sky. Then it stopped, I got out and found myself on a dazzling white landing in brilliant light, standing in front of a handsome door with polished brass handles. I rang: a thin, dark little maid with a sweet face, dressed in a white lace cap and embroidered apron came and opened the door.

“Is Signorina de Santis in?” I asked. “Please tell her it’s Adriana.”

She left me and went along the passage to a door with opalescent panes of glass like those on the staircase. The passage was all white and bare, too, like the rest of the house. I judged it to be a small
apartment, not more than four rooms. It was heated and the warmth from the radiators brought out the pungent smell of the new whitewash and paint. Then the glass-fronted door at the end of the hall opened and the maid returned to tell me I could go through.

I saw nothing when I first entered because the winter sun was blinding as it flooded the room through a wide window that took up the whole of the wall facing the door. The flat was on the top floor and the only thing visible through those windows was blue sky glowing with the light of the sun. For a moment I forgot the purpose of my visit and experienced a feeling of well-being as I shut my eyes in the sunshine, as warm and golden as an old liqueur. But Gisella’s voice made me start. She was seated in front of the window, and facing her across a low table covered with bottles was a little gray-haired woman, her manicurist.

“Oh, Adriana!” she said, with assumed nonchalance. “Do sit down. I won’t be a moment.”

I sat down near the door and looked around me. It was a long, narrow room. There really was not much furniture, only a table, a sideboard, and a few chairs in some light-colored wood, but everything was new and shining in the sun. The sun was really luxurious; sunshine like that was only to be had in wealthy houses, I could not help thinking. Again I shut my eyes deliberately in order to enjoy the delicious sensation, and thought of nothing. Then I felt something soft and heavy fall onto my lap; I opened my eyes and saw a huge cat, a kind I had never seen before, long-haired, soft as silk, grayish-blue in color, with a sulky, haughty expression I didn’t like. The cat began to rub against me, mewing raucously and lifting the tip of its tail. Then it curled up on my lap and began to purr. “What a lovely cat!” I said. “What kind is it?”