The Woman of Rome (39 page)

“Not at all,” I answered. “He never plans anything. A moment before laying out Gino flat on the ground with that punch, he probably wasn’t even dreaming of such a thing … and the same with the jeweler.”

“Then why did he do it?”

“Because … Because it’s stronger than he is — like a tiger. One moment it’s calm, the next it hits out at you with its paw, and no one knows why.” Then I told him the whole story of my relationship with Sonzogno, how he had struck me and threatened to murder me in the dark. “He never thinks,” I concluded. “At a certain moment a force stronger than his will takes hold of him — it’s best to keep your distance at such times. I’m sure he went to the jeweler’s to sell him the compact, then the jeweler insulted him, and he murdered him.”

“He’s kind of a brute, then.”

“Call him what you like. It must be an impulse,” I added, trying to define in my own mind the feeling Sonzogno’s homicidal mania inspired in me, “like the one that drives me to love you. Why do I love you? God only knows. Why does Sonzogno at certain moments feel an impulse to murder? God only knows this, too. I don’t think there’s any explanation for these things.”

He reflected. Then he raised his head. “And what sort of impulse do you think I feel toward you?” he asked. “Do you think I feel the impulse to love you?”

I was terrified that I might hear him say he did not love me. So I covered his mouth with my hand. “Please,” I begged him, “don’t tell me anything about what you feel for me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t need to know.… I don’t know what you feel
for me and don’t want to know.… It’s enough for me to love you, myself.”

He shook his head. “It’s a bad thing for you to love me,” he said. “You ought to love a man like Sonzogno.”

I was really amazed. “What are you saying? A criminal?”

“Suppose he is a criminal? Still, he has the impulses you mentioned. Just as Sonzogno has the impulse to kill, I’m sure he’d have the impulse to love, quite simply, without any complication. But I on the other hand —”

I did not let him continue. “You can’t compare yourself with Sonzogno,” I protested. “You are what you are. He’s a criminal, a monster. And anyway, it isn’t true that he might have the impulse to love — a man like that can’t love. It’s nothing more than a satisfaction of the senses for him.… It’s all the same to him whether it’s me or any other woman.”

He did not seem convinced, but he said nothing. I took advantage of his silence and slipped my fingers under his cuff, along his wrist, trying to reach up his arm. “Mino,” I said.

I saw him start. “Why are you calling me Mino?”

“It’s short for Giacomo. Can’t I?”

“No, no, it doesn’t matter, of course you can. Only it’s what they call me at home, that’s all.”

“Is that what your mother calls you?” I asked, letting go of his wrist and slipping my hand under his tie, stroking his bare chest between the edges of his shirt with my fingertips.

“Yes, it’s what my mother calls me,” he said impatiently. “It’s not the only thing you say that my mother says too,” he continued after a moment, in a voice that was partly sarcastic and partly scornful. “Basically, you share the same opinions about everything.”

“What, for instance?” I asked. I was excited and hardly heard what he was saying. I had unbuttoned his shirt and was trying to reach his thin and graceful boyish shoulder with my hand.

“This, for instance,” he replied. “When I told you I was involved with politics, you immediately exclaimed in a frightened voice, ‘But it’s illegal! It’s dangerous!’ Well, that’s exactly what my mother would have said, in the exact same tone of voice.”

I was flattered by the idea that I resembled his mother, first of all because she was his mother and then because I knew she was a lady. “Silly boy!” I said tenderly. “What’s the harm in that? It means your mother loves you as I do. It’s very true that it’s dangerous to have anything to do with politics. A young man I knew was arrested and he’s been in jail two years now. And for what? They’re stronger, anyway, and as soon as you do anything they put you in prison.… I think it’s possible to live very well without politics.”

“My mother, my mother!” he exclaimed, jubilant and sarcastic. “That’s exactly what my mother would say.”

“I don’t know what your mother says,” I replied, “but I’m sure that whatever it is, it’s for your own good. You ought to leave politics alone. It’s not like it’s your profession. You’re a student. A student’s job is to study.”

“Study, get a degree, and make a position for yourself,” he murmured, as if speaking to himself.

I did not answer, but putting my face up to his I offered him my lips. We kissed and then drew apart. He seemed sorry he had kissed me and looked at me with a hostile and mortified expression. I was afraid I had annoyed him by interrupting his political outburst with my kiss. “But anyway,” I added hastily, “do what you like. I’ve nothing to do with your affairs. As a matter of fact, since I’m here you might as well give me that parcel, and I’ll hide it for you, as we arranged.”

“No, no,” he replied with intensity, “Good God, it wouldn’t work now — not with your friendship with Astarita — suppose he found out!”

“Why? Is Astarita so dangerous?”

“He’s one of the worst,” he replied earnestly.

I felt an inexplicable, mischievous impulse to wound him in his pride. But not spitefully, affectionately. “As a matter of fact.” I said gently, “you never really meant to give me that parcel.”

“Then why did I mention it to you?”

“Because — well, don’t be offended, now — I think you mentioned it to look good to me — to show me you really did dangerous, illegal things.”

He grew irritated and I realized I had struck home. “What nonsense!” he said. “You really are stupid. But what makes you think so?” he asked awkwardly, suddenly calm once more.

“I don’t know,” I answered with a smile. “It’s your whole way of doing things. Perhaps you aren’t aware of it, but you never give the impression that you’re serious about what you do.”

He made a burlesque-like gesture, as if revolting against himself. “And yet it’s an extremely serious matter,” he said. He stood up and, stretching out his thin arms, began to recite emphatically in a falsetto voice:

“
My sword, give me my sword!

I alone will fight, alone will fall
.”

He was so funny, waving his arms and legs about, he looked rather like a marionette.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he replied. “It’s a line out of a poem.” His excitement suddenly gave way to a strangely depressed and reflective mood. He sat down again and continued earnestly, “And yet, look, I’m so much in earnest about everything I do that I actually hope I’ll be arrested … and then I’ll show everyone whether I’m serious or not.”

I said nothing, but took his face between the palms of my hands and began to stroke it. “Your eyes are so beautiful,” I said. It was true, his eyes were exceptionally beautiful, large and gentle, with an intense and innocent expression. He became disturbed again, his chin began to tremble. “Why don’t we go into your bedroom?” I murmured.

“Don’t even think about it — it’s next to the widow’s room — and she’s there the whole day long, with the door open, watching the passage.”

“Let’s go home to my place then.”

“It’s too late.… You live too far away. I’m expecting some friends before long.”

“Here, then.”

“You’re crazy!”

“You’re scared, you mean,” I insisted. “You aren’t afraid to go in for political propaganda — at least, that’s what you say — but you’re afraid of being caught in this sitting room with the woman who loves you. What could happen, anyway? The widow might send you away, and then you’d have to find another room.”

I knew that if I made it a matter of pride, I could get anything out of him. And indeed he seemed to be persuaded. Actually, his desire must have been at least as strong as mine. “You’re crazy,” he repeated. “It might be more of a bother to be sent away from here than to be arrested. Besides, where can we lie?”

“On the floor,” I said, softly and with intense affection. “Come on — I’ll show you how to do it.” He now seemed to be in such a state that he could not speak. I got up from the sofa and slowly lay down on the floor. The floor was covered with rugs and in the middle of the room stood the table with the carafe. I stretched myself out on the rugs, my head and breasts under the table; then I pulled Mino down by one arm, forcing him to lie reluctantly on top of me. I threw my head back, shutting my eyes, and the ancient smell of dust and fluff in the carpet seemed as sweet and intoxicating as if I were lying in a field in springtime and the smell was the scent of flowers and grass, not dirty wool. Mino lay on me and his weight made me feel the delightful hardness of the floor, and I was happy because he did not feel it and my body was his bed. Then I felt him kissing my neck and my cheeks and I was filled with a great joy, because he never did this. I opened my eyes; my face was turned toward my shoulder, one cheek against the rough wool of the carpet, and I could see, beyond the carpet, a wide stretch of wax-polished mosaic and the lower part of the double folding doors beyond that. I heaved a deep sigh and closed my eyes again.

Mino was the first to get back up. I stayed for a long moment as he had left me, flat on my back with one arm over my face, my dress disordered, my legs apart. I felt happy, and blank in my happiness, and I thought I could have stayed there for hours, with the pleasant hardness of the floor under me, and the smell of dust
and fluff in my nostrils. Perhaps I even dropped off into a light, rapid sleep for a second, for I seemed to be dreaming that I really was in a flowery meadow, stretched out on the grass with the sunny sky over me instead of the table. Mino must have thought I was feeling ill, because I suddenly felt him shake me. “What’s the matter?” he said under his breath. “What are you doing? Get up, quick!”

With an effort I removed my arm from my face, slowly came out from under the table and stood up. I felt happy and I was smiling. Mino looked at me in silence, his back against the sideboard, bent over and still panting, his expression hostile and bewildered. “I never want to see you again,” he said at last. At the same time his bowed body gave a strange, involuntary shudder as though he were a puppet and a spring had suddenly gone in him.

I smiled. “Why?” I said. “We love one another — we’ll see each other again.” And going up to him, I caressed him. But he turned his white, contorted face away from me.

“I never want to see you again,” he repeated.

I knew his hostility was chiefly due to his remorse at having yielded to me. He never resigned himself to making love to me without a feeling of reluctance and deep regret. He was like a man who decides to do something he does not want to do and knows he ought not to do. But I was sure his bad mood would be short-lived and that his desire for me, however he might struggle against it and hate it, would always be stronger in the end than his singular longing for chastity. So I took no notice of his words, and, remembering the tie I had bought for him, I went over to the shelf where I had put my gloves and purse.

“Come on, now,” I said. “Don’t be so angry! I won’t come here again. Will that do?”

He made no reply. At that moment the door was flung open and an elderly parlormaid showed two men into the room. “Hello, Giacomo,” said the first, in a deep, thick voice.

I realized these must be his political comrades and looked at them curiously. The one who had spoken was a giant — he was taller than Mino, broad-shouldered, and looked like a professional
boxer. He had blond ruffled hair, blue eyes, a flattened nose, and a red, shapeless mouth. But his expression was open and pleasant, with a mixture of shyness and simplicity I found attractive. Although it was winter, he wore no overcoat, only a white turtleneck sweater underneath his jacket, which emphasized his sportsmanlike appearance. His red hands, with their thick wrists, which stuck out of the rolled cuffs of the sweater, struck me at once. He must have been very young, about Giacomo’s age, probably. The other man was about forty, and, in contrast to his companion, who was evidently a workingman or a peasant, looked and dressed like a man of the middle class. He was short and looked tiny beside his friend. He was a very dark little man and his face was eclipsed by a huge pair of tortoiseshell glasses. A snub nose peered out from beneath them, and below this nose he opened a very wide mouth, really a slit stretching from ear to ear. His thin, unshaven cheeks with their black stubble, his threadbare collar, his creased and spotted suit, in which his wretched little body floated loosely, everything about him gave an impression of deliberate, aggressive negligence, of complacent poverty. To tell the truth, I was astonished at the appearance of these two men, because Mino always dressed with a kind of careless elegance and gave many indications that he belonged to a different social class from theirs. If I had not seen them greet Mino, and Mino return their greeting, I would never have imagined they were friends of his. I instinctively liked the tall one and disliked the short one.

“Perhaps we’ve come too early?” the tall one asked, with an embarrassed smile.

“No, no,” said Mino, pulling himself together. He was dazed and seemed to find some difficulty in recovering himself. “You’re right on time.”

“Punctuality is the courtesy of kings,” said the little man, rubbing his hands together. Suddenly, as if he found his phrase extremely funny, he burst into a fit of unexpected laughter. Then, just as he had laughed, with the same disagreeable suddenness, he grew serious once more, so serious that I almost doubted whether he had ever laughed.

“Adriana,” said Mino with an effort, “let me introduce two friends of mine — Tullio,” and he pointed to the little one, “and Tommaso.”

I noticed he did not mention surnames and I thought the names he gave were probably false. I held out my hand, with a smile. The big man gave it a squeeze that hurt my fingers; but the little one wetted them with the sweat that bathed his palm. “Delighted,” said the little one, with a heartiness that seemed to me burlesque. “Pleased to meet you,” said the big one simply, as if he liked me, I thought. I noticed he had a slight dialectic intonation in his voice.