Difficult Loves, Page 2

  The widow did react, but with a sudden gesture of shielding herself and rejecting him. It was enough to send Tomagra crouching in his corner, wringing his hands. But it was, probably, a false alarm caused by a passing light in the corridor which had made the widow fear the tunnel was suddenly going to end. Perhaps: or else, had he gone too far, had he committed some horrible rudeness towards her, who was already so generous towards him? No, by now there could be nothing forbidden between them; and her action, on the contrary, was a sign that this was all real, that she accepted, participated. Tomagra approached again. To be sure, in these reflections a great deal of time had been wasted, the tunnel wouldn’t last much longer, it wasn’t wise to allow oneself to be caught by the sudden light. Tomagra was already expecting the first grayness on the wall, there: the more he expected it, the more risky it was to attempt anything. To be sure, however, this was a long tunnel; he remembered it from other journeys as very, very long. Certainly, if he took advantage immediately, he would have a lot of time ahead of him. Now it was best to wait for the end, but it never ended, and so this had perhaps been his last chance. There, now the darkness was being dispelled, it was ending.

  They were at the last station of a provincial line. The train was emptying; some passengers in the compartment had already got out, now the rest were taking down their bags, moving off. In the end they were alone in the compartment, the soldier and the widow, very close and detached, their arms folded, silent, eyes staring into space. Tomagra still had to think: Now that all the seats are free, if she wanted to be nice and comfortable, if she were fed up with me, she would move . . .

  Something restrained him and frightened him still, perhaps the presence of a group of smokers in the passage, or a light that had come on because it was evening. Then he thought of drawing the curtains on the passage, like somebody wanting to get some sleep. He stood up with elephantine steps; with slow, meticulous care be began to unfasten the curtains, draw them, fasten them again. When he turned, he found her stretched out. As if she wanted to sleep: but apart from the fact that she had her eyes open and staring, she had slipped down, maintaining her matronly composure intact, with the majestic hat still on her head, which was resting on the seat arm.

  Tomagra was standing over her. Still, to protect this image of sleep, he chose also to darken the outside window; and he stretched over her, to undo the curtain. But it was only a way of shifting his clumsy actions above the impassive widow. Then he stopped tormenting that curtain’s snap and understood he had to do something else, show her all his own, compelling condition of desire, if only to explain to her the misunderstanding into which she had certainly fallen, as if to say to her: You see, you were kind to me because you believe we have a remote need for affection, we poor lonely soldiers, but here is what I really am, this is how I received your courtesy, this is the degree of impossible ambition I have reached, you see, here.

  And since it was now evident that nothing could manage to surprise the lady, and indeed everything seemed somehow to have been foreseen by her, then Private Tomagra could only make sure that no further doubts were possible, and finally the urgency of his madness managed also to grasp its mute object: her.

  When Tomagra stood up and, beneath him, the widow remained with her clear, stern gaze (she had blue eyes), with her hat and veil still squarely on her head, and the train never stopped its shrill whistling through the fields, and outside those endless rows of grapevines went on, and the rain that throughout the journey had tirelessly streaked the panes now resumed with new violence, he had again a brief spurt of fear, thinking how he, Private Tomagra, had been so daring.

  (1949)

  The adventure of a crook

  THE IMPORTANT thing was not to get himself arrested immediately. Gim flattened himself in the recess of a doorway, the police seemed to run straight past, but then, all at once, he heard their steps come back, turn into the alley. He darted off, in agile leaps.

  “Stop or we’ll shoot, Gim!”

  Sure, sure, go ahead and shoot! he thought, and he was already out of their range, his feet thrusting him from the edge of the pebbled steps, down the slanting streets of the old city. Above the fountain, he jumped over the railing of the stairs, then he was under the archway, which amplified the pounding of his steps.

  The whole circuit that came into his mind had to be rejected: Lola no, Nilde no, Renée no. Those guys would soon be all over the place, knocking at doors. It was a mild night, the clouds so pale they wouldn’t have looked out of place in the daytime, above the arches set high over the alleyways.

  On reaching the broad streets of the new city, Mario Albanesi alias Gim Bolero slowed his pace a little, tucked behind his ears the strings of hair that fell from his temples. Not a step was heard. Determined and discreet, he crossed over, reached Armanda’s doorway, and climbed to her apartment. At this time of night she surely didn’t have anybody with her; she would be sleeping. Gim knocked hard.

  “Who’s there?” a man’s voice asked, irritated, after a moment. “At this time of night people get their sleep . . .” It was Lilin.

  “Open up a minute, Armanda. It’s me, it’s Gim,” he said, not loud, but firmly.

  Armanda rolled over in bed, “Oh, Gim boy, just a minute, I’ll open the door . . . uh, it’s Gim.” She grabbed the wire at the head of the bed that opened the front door and pulled.

  The door clicked, obedient; Gim went along the corridor, hands in his pockets; he entered the bedroom. In Armanda’s huge bed, her body, in great mounds under the sheets, seemed to take up all the space. On the pillow, her face without make-up, under the black bangs, hung slack, baggy and wrinkled. Beyond, as if in a fold of the blanket, on the far side of the bed, her husband Lilin was lying; and he seemed to want to bury his little bluish face in the pillow, to recover his interrupted sleep.

  Lilin has to wait till the last customer has gone before he can get into bed and sleep off the weariness that accumulates during his lazy days. There is nothing in the world that Lilin knows how to do or wants to do; if he has his smokes, he’s content. Armanda can’t say Lilin costs her much, except for the packets of tobacco he consumes in the course of a day. He goes out with his packet in the morning, sits for a while at the cobbler’s, at the junk dealer’s, at the plumber’s, rolls one paper after another and smokes, seated on those shop stools, his long, smooth, thief’s hands on his knees, his gaze dull, listening like a spy to everyone, hardly ever contributing a word to the talk except for brief remarks and unexpected smiles, crooked and yellow. At evening, when the last shop has closed, he goes to the wine counter and drains a liter, burns up the cigarettes he has left, until they also pull down the shutters. He comes out, his wife is still on her beat along the Corso in her short dress, her swollen feet in her tight shoes. Lilin appears around a corner, gives her a low whistle, mutters a few words, to tell her it’s late now, she should come to bed. Without looking at him, on the step of the sidewalk as if on a stage, her bosom compressed in the armature of wire and elastic, her old woman’s body in her young girl’s dress, nervously twitching her purse in her hands, drawing circles on the pavement with her heels, suddenly humming, she tells him no, people are still around, he must go off and wait. They woo each other like this, every night.

  “Well then, Gim?” Armanda says, widening her eyes.

  He has already found some cigarettes on the night-table and lights one.

  “I have to spend the night here. Tonight.”

  And he is already taking off his jacket, undoing his tie.

  “Sure, Gim, get into bed. You go onto the sofa, Lilin, go on, Lilin honey, clear out now, let Gim get to bed.”

  Lilin lies there a bit, like a stone, then he pulls himself up, emitting a complaint without distinct words; he gets down from the bed, takes his pillow, a blanket, the tobacco from the table, the cigarette-papers, matches, ashtray. “Go oh, Lilin honey, go on.” Tiny and hunched, he goes off, under his load, towards the sofa in the corridor.

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sp; Gim smokes as he undresses, folds his trousers neatly and hangs them up, arranges his jacket around a chair by the head of the bed, brings the cigarettes from the dresser to the night-table, matches, an ashtray, and climbs into bed. Armanda turns off the lamp and sighs. Gim smokes. Lilin sleeps in the corridor. Armanda rolls over. Gim stubs out his cigarette. There is a knocking at the door.

  With one hand Gim is already touching the revolver in the pocket of his jacket, with the other he has taken Armanda by the elbow, warning her to be careful. Armanda’s arm is fat and soft; they stay like that for a while.

  “Ask who it is, Lilin,” Armanda says in a low voice.

  Lilin, in the hall, huffs impatiently. “Who is it?” he asks rudely.

  “Hey, Armanda, it’s me. Angelo.”

  “Angelo who?” she says.

  “Angelo the sergeant, Armanda. I happened to be going by, and I thought I’d come up . . . Can you open the door a minute?”

  Gim has got out of the bed and is signalling her to be quiet. He opens a door, looks into the toilet, takes the chair with his clothes and carries it inside.

  “Nobody’s seen me. Get rid of him fast,” he says softly and locks himself in the toilet.

  “Come on, Lilin honey, get back into bed, come on, Lilin,” from the bed Armanda directs the rearrangement.

  “Armanda, you’re keeping me waiting,” the other man says, beyond the door.

  Calmly, Lilin collects blanket, pillow, tobacco, matches, papers, ashtray, and comes back to bed, gets in, and pulls the sheet to his eyes. Armanda grabs the wire and clicks open the door.

  Sergeant Soddu comes in, with the rumpled look of an old policeman in civilian clothes, his mustache gray against his fat face.

  “You’re out late, sergeant,” Armanda says.

  “Oh, I was just taking a walk,” Soddu says, “and I thought I’d pay you a call.”

  “What was it you wanted?”

  Soddu was at the head of the bed, wiping his sweaty face with his handkerchief.

  “Nothing, just a little visit. What’s new?”

  “New how?”

  “Have you seen Albanesi by any chance?”

  “Gim? What’s he done now?”

  “Nothing. Kid stuff . . . We wanted to ask him something. Have you seen him?”

  “Three days ago.”

  “I mean now.”

  “I’ve been asleep for two hours, Sarge. Why are you asking me? Go ask his girls: Rosy, Nilde, Lola . . .”

  “No use. When he’s in trouble, he stays away from them.”

  “He hasn’t shown up here. Next time, Sarge.”

  “Well, Armanda, I was just asking. Anyway I’m glad to pay you a visit.”

  “Good night, Sarge.”

  “Good night, eh.”

  Soddu turned, but didn’t leave.

  “I was thinking . . . it’s practically morning, and I don’t have any other rounds to make. I don’t feel like going back to that cot. So long as I’m here, I’ve half a mind to stay. What about it, Armanda?”

  “Sergeant, you’re always great, but to tell you the truth, at this time of night, I’m not receiving. That’s how it is, Sarge. We all have our schedule.”

  “Armanda . . . an old friend like me,” Soddu was already removing his jacket, his undershirt.

  “You’re a nice man, Sergeant. Why don’t we get together tomorrow night?”

  Soddu went on undressing. “It’s to pass the night, you understand, Armanda? Well, make some room for me.”

  “Lilin will go on the sofa then. Go on, Lilin honey, go on out now.”

  Lilin groped with his long hands, found the tobacco on the table, pulled himself up, grumbling, climbed from the bed almost without opening his eyes, collected pillow, blanket, papers, matches. “Go on, Lilin honey.” He went off, dragging the blanket along the hall. Soddu turned over between the sheets.

  Next door, Gim looked through the panes of the little window at the sky, turning green. He had forgotten his cigarettes on the table, that was the trouble. And now the other man was getting into bed and Gim had to stay shut up until daylight between that bidet and those boxes of talcum powder, unable to smoke. He had dressed again in silence, had combed his hair neatly, looking at himself in the wash-stand mirror, above the fence of perfumes and eye-drops and syringes and medicines and insecticides that adorned the shelf. He read some labels in the light from the window, stole a box of tablets, then continued his tour of the toilet. There weren’t many discoveries to be made: some clothes in a tub, others on a line. He tested the taps of the bidet; the water spurted noisily. What if Soddu heard? To hell with Soddu and with jail. Gim was bored, he went back to the basin, sprinkled some cologne on his jacket, spread Brilliantine on his hair. The fact was, if they didn’t arrest him today, they would tomorrow, but they hadn’t caught him red-handed, and if all went well, they’d turn him loose right away. To wait there another two or three hours, without cigarettes, in that cubbyhole . . . why did he bother? Of course, they’d let him out right away. He opened a closet: it creaked. To hell with the closet and everything else. Inside it, Armanda’s clothes were hanging. Gim stuck his revolver into the pocket of a fur coat. I’ll come back and get it, he thought, she won’t be wearing this till winter anyhow. He drew out his hand, white with naphthalene. All the better: the gun won’t get moth-eaten. He laughed. He went to wash his hands again, but Armanda’s towels turned his stomach and he wiped himself on a topcoat in the closet.

  Lying in bed, Soddu had heard noises next door. He put one hand on Armanda. “Who’s there?”

  She turned, pressed to him, and put her big, soft arm around his neck. “It’s nothing . . . Who could it be? . . .”

  Soddu didn’t want to free himself, but still he heard movements in there and he asked, as if playing: “What is it, eh? What’s that?”

  Gim opened the door. “Come on, Sarge, don’t play dumb. Arrest me.”

  Soddu reached out one hand to the revolver in his jacket, hung on a peg; but he didn’t let go of Armanda. “Who’s that?”

  “Gim Bolero.”

  “Hands up.”

  “I’m not armed, Sarge, don’t be silly. I’m turning myself in.”

  He was standing at the head of the bed, his jacket around his shoulders, his hands half-raised.

  “Oh, Gim,” Armanda said.

  “I’ll come back to see you in a few days, ‘Anda,” Gim said.

  Soddu got up, mumbling, and slipped on his trousers. “What a lousy job . . . Never a moment’s peace . . .”

  Gim took the cigarettes from the table, lighted one, slipped the pack into his pocket.

  “Give me a smoke, Gim,” Armanda said, and she leaned out, lifting her flabby bosom.

  Gim put a cigarette in her mouth, lighted it for her, helped Soddu on with his jacket. “Let’s go, Sarge.”

  “Another time, Armanda,” Soddu said.

  “So long, Angelo,” she said.

  “So long, eh? Armanda,” Soddu said again.

  “Bye, Gim.”

  They went out. In the corridor Lilin was sleeping, perched on the edge of the broken-down sofa; he didn’t even move.

  Armanda was smoking, seated on the big bed; she turned off the lamp because a gray light was already coming into the room.

  “Lilin,” she called. “Come on, Lilin, come to bed, come on, Lilin honey, come.”

  Lilin was already gathering up the pillow, the ashtray.

  (1949)

  The adventure of a bather

  WHILE ENJOYING a swim at the beach at ***, Signora Isotta Barbarino had an unfortunate mishap. She was swimming far out in the water, and when it seemed time to go back in and she turned towards the shore, she realized that an irreparable event had occurred. She had lost her bathing-suit.

  She couldn’t tell if it had slipped off just then, or if she had been swimming without it already for some time; of the new two-piece suit she had been wearing, only the halter was left. At some twist of her hip, some buttons mus
t have popped, and the bottom part, reduced to a shapeless rag, had slipped down her leg. Perhaps it was still sinking a few feet below her; she tried dropping down underwater to look for it, but she immediately lost her breath and only vague green shadows flashed before her eyes.

  She stifled the anxiety rising inside her, and tried to think in a calm, orderly fashion. It was noon; there were people around, in the sea, in kayaks and in rowboats, or swimming. She didn’t know anyone; she had arrived the day before, with her husband, who had had to go back to the city at once. Now there was no other course, the Signora thought (and she was the first to be surprised at her clear, serene reasoning), but to find among these people a beach-attendant’s boat, which there had to be, or the boat of some other person who inspired trust, hail it, or rather approach it, and manage to ask for both help and tact.

  This is what Signora Isotta was thinking, as she kept afloat, huddled almost into a ball, pawing the water, not daring to look around. Only her head emerged and, unconsciously, she lowered her face towards the surface, not to delve into its secrecy, now held inviolable, but like someone rubbing eyelids and temples against the sheet or the pillow to stem tears provoked by some night-thought. And it was a genuine pressure of tears that she felt at the corners of her eyes, and perhaps that instinctive movement of her head was really meant to dry those tears in the sea: this is how distraught she was, this is what a gap there was in her between reason and feeling. She wasn’t calm then: she was desperate. Inside that motionless sea, wrinkled only at long intervals by the barely-indicated hump of a wave, she also kept herself motionless, no longer with slow strokes, but only with a pleading movement of the hands, half in the water; and the most alarming sign of her condition, though perhaps not even she realized it, was this usury of strength she observed, as if she had a very long and exhausting time ahead of her.