Difficult Loves, Page 3

  She had put on her two-piece suit that morning for the first time; and at the beach, in the midst of all those strangers, she realized it made her feel a bit ill-at-ease. But the moment she was in the water, on the contrary, she felt content, freer in her movements, with a greater desire to swim. She liked to take long swims, well away from the shore, but her pleasure was not an athlete’s, for she was actually rather plump and lazy; what meant most to her was the intimacy with the water, feeling herself a part of that peaceful sea. Her new suit gave her that very impression; indeed, the first thing she had thought, as she swam, was: It’s like being naked. The only irksome thing was the recollection of that crowded beach. It was not unreasonable: her future beach acquaintances would perhaps form an idea of her that they would have to some extent to modify later: not so much an opinion about her behavior, since at the seaside all the women dressed like this, but a belief, for example, that she was athletic, or fashionable, whereas she was really a very simple, domestic person. It was perhaps because she was already feeling this sensation of herself as different from usual that she had noticed nothing when this mishap took place. Now that uneasiness she had felt on the beach, and that novelty of the water on her bare skin, and her vague concern at having to return among the other bathers: all had been enlarged and engulfed by her new and far more serious dismay.

  What she would have preferred never to look at was the beach. And she looked at it. Bells were ringing noon, and on the sand the great umbrellas with black and yellow concentric circles were casting black shadows in which the bodies became flat, and the teeming of the bathers spilled into the sea, and none of the boats was on the shore now, and as soon as one returned it was seized even before it could touch bottom, and the black rim of the blue expanse was disturbed by constant explosions of white splashing, especially behind the ropes, where the horde of children was roiling; and at every bland wave a shouting arose, its notes immediately swallowed up by the blast. Just off that beach, she was naked.

  Nobody would have suspected it, seeing only her head rising from the water, and occasionally her arms and her bosom, as she swam cautiously, never lifting her body to the surface. She could then carry out her search for help without exposing herself too much. And to check how much of her could be glimpsed by alien eyes, Signora Isotta now and then stopped and tried to look at herself, floating almost vertically. And with anxiety she saw in the water the sun’s beams sway in limpid, underwater glints, and illuminate drifting seaweed and rapid schools of little striped fish, and on the bottom the corrugated sand, and on top, her body. In vain, twisting it with clenched legs, she tried to hide it from her own gaze: the skin of the pale revealing belly gleamed, between the tan of the bosom and the thighs, and neither the motion of a wave nor the half-sunken drift of seaweed could merge the darkness and the pallor of her abdomen. The Signora resumed swimming in that mongrel way of hers, keeping her body as low as she could, but, never stopping, she would turn to look out of the corner of her eye over her shoulder: at every stroke, all the white breadth of her person appeared in the light of day, in its most identifiable and secret forms. And she did everything to change the style and direction of her swimming, she turned in the water, she observed herself at every angle and in every light, she writhed upon herself; and always this offensive, naked body pursued her. It was a flight from her own body that she was attempting, as if from another person whom she, Signora Isotta, was unable to save in a difficult juncture, and could only abandon to her fate. And yet this body, so rich and so impossible to conceal, had indeed been a glory of hers, a source of self-satisfaction; only a contradictory chain of circumstances, apparently sensible, could make it now a cause for shame.

  Or perhaps not, perhaps her life always consisted only of the clothed lady she had been all of her days, and her nakedness hardly belonged to her, was a rash state of nature revealed only every now and then, arousing wonder in human beings and foremost in her. Now Signora Isotta recalled that even when she was alone or in private with her husband she had always surrounded her being naked with an air of complicity, of irony, part embarrassed and part feline, as if she were temporarily putting on joyous but outrageous disguises, for a kind of secret carnival between husband and wife. She had become accustomed with some reluctance to owning a body, after the first disappointed, romantic years, and she had taken it on like someone who learns he can command a long-yearned-for property. Now, the awareness of this right of hers disappeared again among the old fears, as that yelling beach loomed ahead.

  When noon had passed, among the bathers scattered through the sea a reflux towards the shore began; it was the hour of lunch at the pensioni, of picnics in front of the cabins, and also the hour in which the sand was to be enjoyed at its most searing, under the vertical sun. And the keels of boats, and the pontoons of the catamarans passed close to the Signora, and she studied the faces of the men on those boats, and sometimes she almost decided to move towards them; but each time a flash, a glance beneath their lashes, or the hint of an abrupt jerk of shoulder or elbow, put her to flight, with false-casual strokes, whose calm masked an already burdensome weariness. The men in the boats, alone or in groups, boys all excited by the physical exercise, or gentlemen with wily claims or insistent gaze, encountering her, lost in the sea, her prim face unable to conceal a shy, pleading anxiety, with her cap that gave her a slightly peevish, doll-like expression, and with her soft shoulders heaving around, uncertain, immediately emerged from their self-centred or brawling nirvana. Those who were not alone pointed her out to their companions with a snap of the chin or a wink; and those who were alone, braking with one oar, swerved their prow deliberately, to cross her path. Her need for trust was met by these rising barriers of slyness and double-entendre, a hedge of piercing pupils, of incisors bared in ambiguous laughter, of oars pausing, suddenly interrogatory, on the surface of the water; and the only thing she could do was flee. An occasional swimmer passed by, ducking his head blindly, and puffing out spurts of water without raising his eyes; but the Signora distrusted these men and evaded them. In fact, even though they passed at some distance from her, the swimmers, overcome by sudden fatigue, let themselves float and stretched their legs in a senseless splashing, until, by moving away, she displayed her disdain. And thus this net of compulsory hints was already spread around her, as if lying in ambush for her, as if each of those men for years had been daydreaming of a woman to whom what had happened to her would happen, and these men spent the summers at the sea hoping to be present at the right moment. There was no way out: the front of preordained male insinuations extended to all men, with no possible breach, and that savior she had stubbornly dreamed of as the most anonymous possible creature, almost angelic, a beach-boy, a sailor, could not exist: she was now sure of that. The beach guard she did see pass by, certainly the only one who would be out in a boat to prevent possible accidents with this calm sea, had such fleshy lips and such tense muscles that she would never have had the courage to entrust herself to his hands, even if – she actually thought in the emotion of the moment – it were to have him unlock a cabin or set up an umbrella.

  In her disappointed fantasies, the people to whom she had hoped to turn had always been men. She hadn’t thought of women, and yet with them everything should have been more simple; a kind of female solidarity would certainly have gone into action, in this serious crisis, in this anxiety that only a fellow-woman could completely understand. But possibilities of communication with members of her own sex were rarer and more uncertain, unlike the perilous ease of encounters with men; and a distrust – reciprocal this time – blocked such communication. Most of the women went by in catamarans accompanied by a man, and they were jealous, inaccessible, seeking the open sea, where the body, whose shame she suffered passively, was for them the weapon of an aggressive and calculable strategy. Now and then a boat came out packed with chirping, over-heated young girls, and the Signora thought of the distance between the profound vulgarity of her suffering and their
volatile heedlessness; she thought of how she would have to repeat her appeal to them because they surely wouldn’t understand her the first time; she thought of how their expression would change at the news, and she couldn’t bring herself to call out to them. A blonde also went by, alone, tanned, in a catamaran, full of smugness and egoism; surely she was going far out to take the sun completely naked, and it would never remotely occur to her that nakedness could be a misfortune or a torment. Signora Isotta realized then how alone a woman is, and how rare, among her own kind, is solidarity, spontaneous and good (destroyed perhaps by the pact made with man), which would have foreseen her appeals and come to her side at the merest hint in the moment of a secret misfortune no man would understand. Women would never save her: and her own man was away. She felt her strength abandoning her.

  A little, rust-colored buoy, till then fought over by a cluster of diving kids, suddenly, at a general plunge, remained deserted. A seagull lighted on it, flapped its wings, then flew off as Signora Isotta grasped its rim. She would have drowned, if she hadn’t grabbed it in time. But not even death was possible, not even that indefensible, excessive remedy was left her: when she was about to faint and couldn’t manage to keep her chin up, drawn down towards the water, she saw a rapid, tensed alertness among the men on the boats around, all ready to dive in and come to her rescue. They were there only to save her, to carry her naked and unconscious among the questions and stares of a curious public; and her risk of death would have achieved only the ridiculous and vulgar result that she was trying in vain to avoid.

  From the buoy, looking at the swimmers and rowers, who seemed to be gradually reabsorbed by the shore, she remembered the marvelous weariness of those returns, and the cries from one boat to another – “We’ll meet on shore!”, or “Let’s see who gets there first!” – filled her with a boundless envy. But then, when she noticed a thin man, in long trunks, the only person left in the middle of the sea, standing erect in a motionless motorboat, looking at something or other in the water, immediately her longing to go ashore burrowed down, hid within her fear of being seen, her anxious effort to conceal herself behind the buoy.

  She no longer remembered how long she had been there: already the beach crowd was thinning out, and boats were already in line again on the sand, and the umbrellas, furled one after the other, were now only a cemetery of short poles, and the gulls skimmed the water, and on the motionless motorboat the thin man had disappeared and in his place a dumbfounded boy’s curly head peered from the side; and over the sun a cloud passed driven by a just-wakened wind against a cumulus collected above the hills. The Signora thought of that hour as seen from the land, the polite afternoons, the destiny of unassuming correctness and respectful joys she had thought was guaranteed her and of the contemptible incongruity that occurred to contradict it, like the chastisement for a sin not committed. Not committed? But that abandonment of hers in bathing, that desire to swim all alone, that joy in her own body in the two-piece suit recklessly chosen: weren’t these perhaps signs of a flight begun some time past, the defiance of an inclination to sin, the progressive stages of a mad race towards this state of nakedness that now appeared to her in all its wretched pallor? And the society of men, among whom she thought to pass intact like a big butterfly, pretending a compliant, doll-like nonchalance, now revealed its basic cruelties, its doubly diabolical essence, the presence of an evil against which she had not sufficiently armed herself and, at once, the agent, the instrument of her sentence.

  Clinging to the studs of the buoy with bloodless fingertips now with accentuated wrinkles from the prolonged stay in the water, the Signora felt herself cast out by the whole world, and she couldn’t understand why this nakedness that all people carry with themselves forever should banish her alone, as if she were the only one who was naked, the only being who could remain naked under heaven. And as she raised her eyes, she saw now the man and boy together on the motorboat, both standing, making signs to her as if to say she should remain there, that she shouldn’t distress herself pointlessly. They were serious, composed, the two of them, unlike anyone else earlier, as if they were announcing a verdict to her: she was to resign herself, she alone had been chosen to pay for all; and if, as they gesticulated, they tried to muster a kind of smile, it was without any hint of maliciousness: perhaps an invitation to accept her sentence good-naturedly, willingly.

  Immediately the boat sped off, faster than one would have thought possible, and the two paid attention to the motor and the course and didn’t turn again towards the Signora, who tried to smile back at them, as if to show that if she were accused only of being made in this way so dear and prized by all, if she had only to expiate our somewhat clumsy tenderness of forms, well, she would take the whole burden on herself, content.

  The boat, with its mysterious movements, and her own tangled reasoning had kept her in a state of such timorous bewilderment that it was a while before she became aware of the cold. A sweet plumpness allowed Signora Isotta to take long and icy swims that amazed her husband and family, all thin people. But now she had been in the water too long, and the sun was covered, and her smooth skin rose in grainy bumps, and ice was slowly taking possession of her blood. There, in this shivering that ran through her, Isotta realized she was alive, and in danger of death, and innocent. Because the nakedness that had suddenly seemed to grow on her body was something she had always accepted not as a guilt but as her anxious innocence, as the secret fraternity with others, as flesh and root of her being in the world. And they, on the contrary, the smart men in the boats and the fearless women under the umbrellas, who did not accept it, who insinuated it was a crime, an accusation: only they were guilty. She didn’t want to pay for them; and she wriggled, clinging to the buoy, her teeth chattering, tears on her cheeks . . . And over there, from the port, the motorboat was returning, even faster than before, and at the prow the boy was holding up a narrow green sail: a skirt!

  When the boat stopped near her, and the thin man stretched out one hand to help her on board, and covered his eyes with the other, smiling, the Signora was already so far from any hope of someone saving her, and the train of her thoughts had traveled so far afield, that for a moment she couldn’t connect her senses with her reasoning and action, and she raised her hand towards the man’s outstretched hand even before realizing that it wasn’t her imagination, that the boat was really there, and had really come to her rescue. She understood and, all of a sudden, everything became perfect and ordained, and her thoughts, the cold, fear were forgotten. From pale, she turned red as fire, and standing on the boat, she slipped on that garment, while the man and the boy, facing the horizon, looked at the gulls.

  They started the motor, and seated at the prow in a green skirt with orange flowers, she saw on the bottom of the boat a mask for underwater fishing and she knew how the pair had learned her secret. The boy, swimming below the surface with mask and harpoon, had seen her and had alerted the man, who had also dived in to see. Then they had motioned her to wait for them, without being understood, and had sped to the port to procure a dress from some fisherman’s wife.

  The two were sitting at the poop, hands on their knees, and were smiling: the boy, an urchin of about eight, was all eyes, with a dazed, coltish smile; the man, a gray, shaggy head, a brick-red body with long muscles, had a slightly sad smile, a dead cigarette stuck to his lip. It occurred to Signora Isotta that perhaps the two of them, looking at her dressed, were trying to remember her as they had seen her underwater; but this didn’t make her feel ill-at-ease. After all, since someone had perforce to see her, she was glad it had been these two, and also that they had felt curiosity and pleasure. To arrive at the beach, the man took the boat past the docks and the port and the vegetable gardens along the sea; and anyone who saw them from the shore no doubt believed that the three were a little family coming home in their boat as they did every evening during the fishing season. The gray fishermen’s houses overlooked the dock; red nets were stretched across
short stakes; and from the boats, already tied up, some youths lifted lead-colored fish and passed them to girls standing with square baskets, the low rim propped against their hip; and men with tiny gold earrings, seated on the ground with spread legs, were sewing endless nets; and in some tubs they were boiling tannin to dye the nets again; and little stone walls divided off tiny vegetable gardens on the sea, where the boats lay beside the canes of the seed-beds; and women with their mouth full of nails helped their husbands, lying under the keel, to patch holes; and every pink house had a low roof covered with tomatoes split in two and set out to dry with salt on a grille; and under the asparagus plants the kids were hunting for worms; and some old men with bellows were spraying insecticide on their loquats; and the yellow melons were growing under creeping leaves; and in flat pans the old women were frying squid and polyps or else pumpkin-flowers dredged in flour; and the prows of fishing-boats rose in the yards redolent of wood just planed, and a brawl among the boys caulking the hulls had broken out with threats of brushes black with tar, and then the beach began with the little sand castles and volcanoes abandoned by the children.

  Signora Isotta, seated in the boat with that pair, in that excessive green and orange dress, would even have liked the trip to continue. But the boat was aiming its prow at the shore, and the beach attendants were carrying away the deck-chairs, and the man had bent over the motor, turning his back: that brick-red back divided by the knobs of the spine, on which the hard, salty skin rippled as if moved by a sigh.

  (1951)

  The adventure of a clerk

  IT SO happened that Enrico Gnei, a clerk, spent a night with a beautiful lady. Coming out of her house, early, he felt the air and the colors of the spring morning open before him, cool and bracing and new, and it was as if he were walking to the sound of music.