The Woman of Rome (34 page)

“Slow down,” he repeated, raising his hand. “What’s the hurry? For the time being she’s in jail — but she hasn’t been sentenced yet. Let’s wait.”

“No, I can’t wait! She’s in jail and they say she’s been beaten up.… I can’t wait. You’ve got to make up your mind now.”

He realized from my voice that I was speaking in earnest. He got up with a disconcerted look on his face and began to walk about the room. Then, as if speaking to himself, he continued. “There’s the question of the dollars.”

“But she’s been denying that all along! The dollars were found again. We could say it was revenge on the part of someone who hated her.”

“Have you got the compact?”

“It’s here,” I said, taking it from my bag and handing it to him.

But he refused to touch it. “No, no, you mustn’t give it to me,” he said. “I could have that woman released,” he went on after a moment’s hesitation, “but at the same time the police would have to have the proof that she was innocent — this compact, to be exact.”

“Take it, then, and give it back to its owner.”

He laughed disagreeably. “Obviously you know nothing about these matters! If I accept this compact from you, I’m morally bound to have you arrested. Otherwise they’d say, ‘How did Astarita get hold of the stolen object? who gave it to him? how did he get it? and so on.… No, you’ll have to find some way of getting the compact to the police, but without giving yourself away, of course.”

“I could mail it.”

“No, you can’t mail it.”

He paced about the room then came and sat down beside me. “This is what you’ll have to do,” he said. “Do you know any priest?”

I remembered the French monk I had confessed to when I came back from Viterbo. “Yes, my confessor,” I said.

“Do you still go to confession?”

“I used to.”

“Well — go to your confessor and tell him the whole story. Just as you told me. And beg him to take the compact and give it to the police on your behalf. No confessor could refuse to do this. He’s not obliged to give any information to the police because he is bound by the seal of the confessional. A day or two later I’ll call you … I’ll … Anyway, your maid will be released.”

I was overcome by joy and could not help flinging my arms around his neck and kissing him. He continued in a voice already trembling with desire. “But you mustn’t do these things, you know.… When you need money, just ask me and I …”

“Can I go and see the confessor today?”

“Of course.”

I stood there motionless for some time, staring fixedly in front of me, with the compact in one hand. I experienced a feeling of profound relief, as if I were that maid, and as I imagined her relief, so much greater than my own, at being released, I really felt as if I were her. I was no longer unhappy, tired, or disgusted. Meanwhile Astarita was stroking my wrist with his fingers and trying to insert them into my sleeve to touch my arm. I turned and spoke caressingly, gazing sweetly at him.

“Is it really so important to you?” I asked.

He nodded, incapable of speech.

“Aren’t you tired?” I continued tenderly and cruelly. “Don’t you think it’s getting late — that it would be better to put it off until another day?”

He shook his head.

“Do you love me so much?” I asked.

“You know I love you,” he said in a low voice. He came forward to embrace me, but I avoided him. “Wait,” I said.

He calmed down at once, because he knew I had assented. I got up, went slowly to the door and locked it. Then I walked over to the window, opened it, drew the shutters together and closed the window again. I could feel his eyes on me the whole time as I walked about the room with slow, lazy, stately movements, and I could well imagine how wonderful my unexpected acquiescence must seem to him. When I had closed the shutters, I began to
hum softly in a gay, intimate voice, and still humming I opened the closet, took off my coat, and hung it up. Then, still humming I looked at myself in the mirror. It seemed to me I had never been so beautiful — my eyes were sparkling, deeply and sweetly, my nostrils quivered, my mouth was half open, showing my white, even teeth. I realized I was beautiful because I was pleased with myself, and felt myself to be good. I raised my voice a little as I sang, and at the same time began to unbutton my bodice from the bottom up. I was singing a silly song that was popular at the time. It ran:
I’m singing the ditty I like so much that goes du-du, du-du, du-du
. The silly refrain seemed to me to be like life itself, obviously absurd, but at moments sweet and fascinating. Suddenly, when I had already bared my breasts, someone knocked at the door.

“I can’t,” I said composedly. “Later —”

“It’s urgent,” said Mother’s voice.

A suspicion crossed my mind. I went to the door and unlocked it, then peered out.

Mother beckoned to me to come out and shut the door.

“There’s a man who wants to speak to you urgently,” she whispered in the dark outer room.

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know. A dark young man.”

I opened the door of the living room very quietly and peeped in. Then I saw a man leaning against the table with his back to me. I recognized Giacomo immediately and shut the door again quickly.

“Tell him I’m just coming,” I said to Mother. “And don’t let him leave that room.”

She told me she would and I returned to my room. Astarita was still sitting on the bed, as I had left him.

“Quick,” I said. “Quick … I’m sorry — but you have to go.”

He became distressed and began to stammer some protest. But I cut him short. “My aunt’s been taken ill in the street,” I said. “I’ve got to go to the hospital with my mother as quickly as possible.” It was a fairly transparent lie, but I could not think of anything else at
the moment. He looked at me stupidly, as if he could not believe his own bad luck. I saw that he had removed his shoes, and his feet in their striped socks were resting on the floor.

“Come on! What are you staring at me for? You’ve got to go!” I said in exasperation.

“All right — I’ll go,” he replied, and bent down to put his shoes on again. I stood in front of him to hand him his coat. But I knew I would have to promise him something if I wanted him to intervene in the maid’s favor. “Listen,” I said, as I helped him on with his coat, “I’m awfully sorry about this — but come back tomorrow evening after supper. We won’t be interrupted then. I’d have had to send you away again almost immediately today, anyway. It’s actually better this way.”

He said nothing and I accompanied him to the door, leading him by the hand as if it were his first visit to the house. I was so afraid he might go into the living room and see Giacomo.

“Remember — I’m going right to that confessor today,” I said at the door. He replied with a nod, as if to imply that he understood. His face looked disgusted and frozen. I was so impatient I could not wait for his farewell and almost slammed the door in his face.

5

W
HEN MY FINGERS WERE
on the handle of the living room door, it struck me with sudden force that short of a miracle I was bound to establish between Giacomo and myself the same unhappy relations I had with Astarita. I now saw that the mixture of subjection, fear, and blind desire that Astarita felt for me was exactly what I felt for Giacomo; and although I knew that I ought to behave differently if I wanted to be loved, nevertheless I felt irresistibly drawn to place myself on a lower, dependent plane of anxious uncertainty with him. I could not have explained the reasons for my state of inferiority — if I could have done so, it would no longer exist. I only knew instinctively that we were made of different stuff. I was harder than Astarita but more fragile than Giacomo; and just as there was something that prevented me from loving Astarita, so something prevented Giacomo from loving me. My love for Giacomo, like Astarita’s for me, had started badly and would end worse. My heart was pounding and I felt breathless even before seeing him and speaking to him; I was terribly afraid I would
make some false step, show him my eagerness and desire to please him, and so lose him again once and for all. This is surely the worst curse of love — that it is never requited, and when you love you are not loved in return, and when you are loved you do not love. Two lovers never meet on the same level of emotion and desire, although this is the ideal for which each human being strives. I knew, without any shadow of doubt, that just because I had fallen in love with Giacomo, he had not fallen in love with me. And I also knew, although I did not want to acknowledge it to myself, that no matter what effort I might make, I would never succeed in forcing him to fall in love with me. All this flashed through my mind while I stood hesitating outside the door, in a state of ghastly agitation. I felt dizzy, on the point of doing the most ridiculous things, and this irritated me extremely. At last I took courage and entered the room.

He was still standing as he had been when I had peered at him through the crack of the door, that is leaning against the table, with his back to me. But when he heard me come in, he turned around. “I was just passing by,” he said, looking at me with critical, calculating attention. “So I thought I’d drop in — perhaps I shouldn’t have.” I noticed he was speaking slowly, as if he wanted to have a good look at me before committing himself to speech; and I could not help feeling anxious, wondering what I seemed like to him, perhaps different and less attractive than his memory of me that had led him to visit me after such a lapse of time. But I felt reassured as I remembered how beautiful I had looked when I had gazed at myself in the mirror a little earlier.

“Not at all,” I said, a little breathlessly. “You were right to come — I was just going out to lunch. We could eat together.”

“Do you mean you recognize me?” he asked, perhaps ironically. “Do you know who I am?”

“Of course, I know you!” I said foolishly. And before my self-control could influence my actions, I had taken his hand and raised it to my lips, with a glance full of love. His confusion delighted me.

“Why didn’t you call, you naughty boy?” I asked, in an anxious and tender voice.

He shook his head. “I’ve been very busy,” he said.

I had quite lost my head. After kissing his hand, I placed it on my heart below my breast. “Feel how my heart is beating!” I said. But at the same time I told myself I was a fool because I knew I ought not to have done and said that. He made a certain embarrassed face, so I added, quickly, “I’m just going to put my coat on. I’ll be right back. Wait for me.”

I felt so completely bewildered and so afraid of losing him that when I was in the outer room I turned the key violently in the lock and removed it from the keyhole. In this way, if he tried to leave while I was dressing, he would be unable to. I went into my bedroom, crossed over to the closet mirror and removed all the makeup from my eyes and mouth with the corner of my handkerchief. Then I took my lipstick and touched up my lips again, but just barely. I went over to the coatrack, looked for my coat, could not find it, felt lost, then remembered I had hung it up in the closet, pulled it out, and put it on. I looked at myself in the mirror once more and decided my hairstyle was too showy. I combed out my hair in a great hurry and rearranged it as I used to wear it when I was engaged to Gino. Meanwhile, as I did my hair, I swore to myself solemnly that from that moment on I would repress all the unconsidered impulses of my passion and would exercise a strict control over my words and gestures. At last I was quite ready. I went into the outer room and looked in at the door of the living room to call Giacomo.

But as we were about to leave, the house door, which in my turmoil, I had forgotten to unlock, gave me away.

“You were afraid I’d run away,” he murmured while, very confused, I hunted for the key in my bag. He took the key from my hand and unlocked the door himself, looking at me and shaking his head with a kind of fond severity. My heart was filled with joy and I ran downstairs after him.

“You aren’t annoyed, are you?” I asked him breathlessly as I took his arm. He did not answer.

We walked along arm in arm in the sunshine, past the house doors and shops down in the street. I was so happy walking beside
him that I completely forgot my good resolutions; and when we passed the little villa with the tower, it was as though someone had taken my hand and inspired me to squeeze his. At the same time I realized I was leaning forward, so as to have a better view of his face.

“Do you know that I’m awfully glad to see you?” I said.

He made his usual embarrassed face. “I’m glad, too,” he said, but the tone of his voice was not exactly glad, I thought.

I bit my lips until they bled and disentangled my fingers from his. He did not seem to notice; he was looking around and seemed distracted. But when we reached the gateway in the walls, he hesitated, stopped, and spoke.

“Listen,” he said in a reticent way, “I have to tell you something.”

“Tell me then.”

“I only came to see you by chance — and by the same chance I haven’t a penny on me. So it’ll be better for us to part.” As he said this he held out his hand.

My first reaction was one of terror. He’s leaving me, I thought, and in my bewilderment I saw no other remedy but to cling hard to his neck, beseeching him not to go, and weeping. But on second thought the very excuse that he had given for leaving me showed me an easy way out, and my feelings changed. It occurred to me that I would be able to pay for his lunch, and the idea of paying for him, as so many had paid for me, delighted me. I have already mentioned the sensual pleasure I felt every time I received money for my services. Now I discovered that paying money out is no less thrilling a pleasure. And the mingling of love with money, whether the money is given or received, is not only a matter of profit. “Don’t even think about it!” I exclaimed impetuously. “I’ll pay. Look — I’ve got some money.” And I opened my purse to show him some bills I had put into it the evening before.

“It isn’t done,” he protested, with a trace of disappointment.