The Woman of Rome (33 page)

“A Persian,” said Gisella proudly. “It’s very valuable. A cat like that costs anything up to a thousand lire.”

“I’ve never seen one before,” I said as I stroked it.

“Do you know who’s got one just like it?” said the manicurist. “Signora Radaelli. You should see how well she treats it! Better than a human being. The other day she even sprayed perfume all over it. Shall I just touch up your toenails, miss?”

“It doesn’t matter, Marta,” said Gisella. “That’ll do for today.” The manicurist put her tools and little bottles away in a suitcase, said good-bye, and left.

When we were alone, we looked at one another. Gisella seemed all new, like the house. She was wearing a pretty red angora sweater and a brown skirt I had not seen her in before. She had put on weight, her bosom was fuller, her hips filled her skirt out more. I noticed her eyelids were rather swollen, like a person who eats well, sleeps well, and has no worries. It was her eyelids that gave her a rather sulky look.

“Well — what do you think? Do you like my place?” she asked me as she examined her fingernails.

I am not at all envious by nature. But at that moment I felt the sting of envy for the first time in my life; and I was amazed that there could be people in the world who nourished such a feeling in their hearts their whole life through, for I found it extremely painful and unpleasant. My face was drawn, as though I had suddenly gone thin, and this made it impossible for me to smile at Gisella and say something complimentary as I would have wished. For Gisella herself I experienced a keen feeling of repulsion. I wanted to hurt her, say something spiteful to her, insult her, humiliate her, poison her happiness, in fact. What’s come over me? I thought in bewilderment, while still continuing to stroke the cat. Am I no longer myself? Luckily this feeling did not last long. From the depths of my spirit all the goodness of which I was capable was already stirring and laying siege to envy. I reminded myself that Gisella was my friend and her good fortune was therefore mine, and that I ought to be glad for her sake. I pictured Gisella entering her new house for the first time and clapping her hands with joy; and at that the icy paralysis of envy vanished from my face and I once more felt the warmth of the sun, but in a more intimate fashion, as though it had penetrated into my heart.

“How can you ask?” I said. “Such a gay, lovely place! How did it happen?”

I thought I sounded sincere as I said these words and I smiled, more as a reward to myself than at Gisella.

“Do you remember Giancarlo?” she replied with self-assurance and a confidential air. “That blond I quarreled with right away that first evening? Well, he came to see me again.… He wasn’t nearly as bad as he seemed at first sight. Then we met again, a lot of times. A few days ago he said, ‘Come on, I’ve got a surprise for you.’ I thought he wanted to give me a purse, a bottle of perfume, or some other little present, you know. Instead he brought me here in the car and showed me in. The house was all empty; I thought it must be his own place. Then he asked me if I liked it, so I said yes, but without dreaming what he meant, of course! Then he said, ‘I’ve rented this apartment for you.’ You can just imagine how I felt!”

She smiled with dignified complacency as she looked around her. I got up impulsively, went over to her. “I’m delighted,” I said as I kissed her, “absolutely delighted, I really am.”

This gesture dispelled all hostile feelings from my heart. I went up to the window and looked out. The house stood on a kind of rise with a vast landscape beneath it. It was a cultivated plain, traversed by a winding river, with woods, farms, clumps of rocks here and there. Nothing could be seen of the town but a few high buildings, the last blocks in a suburb, over in one corner of the view. A line of blue mountains stood out clearly on the horizon, against the background of the luminous sky.

“It’s a magnificent view,” I said turning to Gisella.

“Isn’t it?” she answered. She walked over to the sideboard, took out two small glasses and a squat decanter, and put them on the table. “Will you have a liqueur?” she asked carelessly. Obviously all her gestures as mistress of a house of her own filled her with satisfaction.

We sat down at the table and sipped our liqueur in silence. I could see that Gisella was embarrassed and I wanted to do something to relieve her. “Still, it wasn’t very nice of you,” I said gently. “You ought to have let me know.”

“I didn’t have time,” she answered hurriedly. “You know what moving is, and then I’ve had so much to do buying the things I needed most — furniture, linen, dishes — I haven’t had a moment
to breathe. It’s a big job, setting up house.” She pinched her lips together like a proper lady as she spoke.

“I see what you mean,” I said, without a trace of spite or bitterness, as if the whole matter had nothing to do with me. “Now that you have a place of your own and are better off, it bothers you to see me. You’re ashamed of me.”

“I’m not at all ashamed,” she replied with a touch of annoyance, apparently more irritated by my reasonable tone of voice than by my words. “If you think that, you’re really stupid. Only we won’t be able to see each other now the way we did before. I mean — go out together and all that. If he found out, I’d be in real trouble.”

“Don’t worry,” I replied gently. “You won’t see anything more of me. I just came over today to find out what had happened to you.”

She pretended she had not heard and this strengthened me in my belief. A short silence ensued.

“What about you?” she asked with false solicitude.

Immediately, so spontaneously that it frightened me, I thought of Giacomo. “Me?” I replied in a choked voice. “Nothing. Everything’s the same.”

“What about Astarita?”

“I’ve seen him from time to time.”

“And Gino?”

“I’m through with him.”

The memory of Giacomo wrung my heart. But Gisella interpreted the deep mortification she read in my face in her own way. She probably thought I was embittered by her own good luck and scornful manner.

“Still, no one will ever get it out of my head that Astarita would set you up in a place of your own if you wanted him to,” she said, feigning an interest after a moment’s reflection.

“But I don’t want him to,” I said calmly. “Neither Astarita nor anyone else.”

She appeared disconcerted by my reply. “Why not? Wouldn’t you like to have a place like this?”

“The house is beautiful,” I said, “but I want above all to be free!”

“I’m free!” she replied resentfully. “I’m freer than you are. I’ve got the whole day to myself.”

“That’s not the kind of freedom I meant.”

“What did you mean then?”

I realized I had offended her, if only by not showing enough admiration for the house she was so proud of. But she would have been even more deeply offended if I had explained to her that I didn’t despise it and that actually I did not want to tie myself to any man I did not love. I preferred to change the subject.

“Show me around the house,” I said hurriedly. “How many rooms are there?”

“What do you care about the house?” she said with childish disappointment. “You said yourself you didn’t want a place like this.”

“That’s not what I said,” I replied calmly. “It’s a lovely house — I wish I had one like it.”

She said nothing. She was gazing downward with a sulky expression. “So,” I went on weakly after a moment, “you don’t want to show me around?”

She raised her eyes and I saw to my amazement that they were full of tears. “You aren’t the friend I thought you were!” she exclaimed. “You’re — you’re bursting with envy and so you’re trying to run the place down just to upset me.” She was speaking to the air, her face bathed with tears. They were tears of rage and she was the one who was envious this time, a pointless envy that was sharpened unconsciously by my hopeless love for Giacomo and the bitter sense of separation it gave me. But although I understood her so well, indeed, just because of this, I was sorry for her. I got up, went over to her, put my hand on her shoulder.

“Why say that?”-I said. “I’m not envious. I’d like other things — that’s all. But I’m glad you’re happy. So, come on, show me the other rooms,” I said, hugging her.

She blew her nose and yielding to my persuasion said, “There are four rooms, in all — and they’re practically empty.”

“Come on, show me.”

She got up, led the way into the hall, and opening one door after another showed me a bedroom with only a bed and an armchair
at the foot of it, an empty room where she intended to put another bed for “guests,” a little cubbyhole for the maid, with hardly room to swing a cat in. She showed me these rooms with a kind of annoyance, opening the doors and explaining what they were to be used for without any pleasure in them. But her bad mood gave way to vanity when she showed me the bathroom and the kitchen, both tiled in majolica, with their new electric machines and shining faucets. She explained how the machines worked, how much better they were than gas, how clean they were and how little they consumed, and although I was really not at all interested, I pretended this time to be enthusiastic and exclaimed in admiration and surprise. She was so delighted with my attitude that when we had seen the whole apartment she said, “Let’s go and have another liqueur.”

“No, no,” I said, “I’ve got to go.”

“What’s the hurry? Stay a while.”

“I can’t.”

We were in the hallway. She hesitated a moment, then said, “But you must come again … do you know what we could do? He often goes out of Rome — I’ll let you know and you bring along two friends of yours and we’ll have some fun.”

“Suppose he finds out?”

“Why should he?”

“All right, then,” I said. I hesitated in turn, then took courage. “By the way,” I said, “has he ever mentioned that friend of his who was with him that evening?”

“The student? Why? Did you like him?”

“No, I only wondered.”

“We saw him yesterday evening.”

I could not conceal my agitation. “Listen,” I said uncertainly, “if you see him tell him to come see me. But you know — casually, without insisting.”

“All right, I’ll tell him,” she answered. But she was looking at me suspiciously and her glance embarrassed me, because I felt that my love for Giacomo was written in large letters on my face. I understood from the tone of her voice that she would not pass on the message. In despair, I opened the door, said good-bye to
her, and hurried downstairs without turning back. On the second landing I stopped and leaned against the wall, looking up. Why did I tell her? I thought. What came over me? I went on down the stairs with bowed head.

I had made the appointment with Astarita at my own place; when I got there, I was worn out. I was no longer accustomed to going out in the morning and the sun and exercise had tired me. I did not even feel unhappy, I had already paid for my visit to Gisella when I had cried in the taxi on my way to her new apartment. Mother came and opened the door and told me someone had been waiting for me in my room for an hour. I went straight in and sat down on the bed, taking no notice of Astarita who was standing before the window, apparently staring down into the courtyard. I kept still for a moment, pressing my hand to my heart and panting because I had come upstairs so quickly. My back was turned to Astarita, I was gazing absently at the door. He had greeted me, but I had not answered. Then he came and sat down beside me and put his arm around my waist, looking earnestly at me.

In all my worries I had forgotten his crazy desire that was always kindled and alert. An acute revulsion came over me. “Tell me, do you always want it?” I said, in a slow, disagreeable voice as I drew back from him.

He said nothing but took my hand and raised it to his lips, looking upward at me. I thought I would go crazy and pulled my hand away. “You’re always ready, aren’t you?” I went on. “Even in the morning? After you’ve been working all morning? Before you’ve had your lunch? On an empty stomach? You know, you’re really amazing!”

I saw his lips tremble and his eyes go wide. “But I love you!”

“But there’s a time for making love and a time for other things. I made an appointment with you for one o’clock just so you’d know it wasn’t to make love and you — really you’re amazing! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

He stared at me in silence. Suddenly I felt I understood him all too well. He was in love with me and had been waiting for this appointment for days. While I had been struggling with so many
difficulties, he had been thinking of nothing else but my legs, my breasts, my hips, my mouth. “So,” I said, a little less angrily, “if I were to get undressed now —”

He nodded in agreement. I burst out laughing, not unkindly but bitterly. “It wouldn’t occur to you that I might be unhappy or just not feel like it — that I might be hungry or tired or have some other worries — that wouldn’t ever cross your mind, would it?”

He looked at me, then suddenly threw himself upon me and, hugging me closely, buried his face in the hollow between my neck and shoulder. He did not kiss me, he only pressed his face against me as if to feel the warmth of my flesh. He was breathing heavily and sighed from time to time. I was no longer irritated by him, his gestures roused my usual anxious pity. I only felt unhappy. When I thought he had had his fill of sighs, I pushed him off.

“I asked you here on a serious matter,” I said.

He looked at me, then took my hand and began to stroke it. He was tenacious and for him, really, nothing existed but his desire.

“You’re in the police, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then — have me arrested, send me to prison.” I said this quite firmly. At the time, I really wanted him to do it.

“Why? What’s happened?”

“I’m a thief,” I said loudly. “I’ve committed a theft and an innocent woman has been arrested in my place. So — arrest me. I’m quite willing to go to jail. That’s what I want.”

He did not seem surprised, only annoyed.

“Slow down!” he said with a grimace. “What happened? Tell me about it.”

“I’ve told you, I’m a thief.” In a few words I told him about the theft and how the maid had been arrested instead of me. I told him of Gino’s trick, but I did not mention his name. I referred to him only as a servant. But I felt violently tempted to tell him about Sonzogno and his crime and I could hardly keep it back. At last I said, “Now you choose … either you get that woman out of prison or I’ll go and give myself up.”