Two Friends

by Alberto Moravia

  Sergio’s heart jumped. “What do you mean?”

  “Our conversation about my possible conversion to Communism.”

  In a voice that did not feel like his own, and with the same spontaneity that had led him to ask Maurizio for money, Sergio heard himself respond: “I accept.”

  There was a sound of broken glass. A small glass

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  had crashed to the floor; it was not clear whether it had fallen out of Maurizio’s hand or had simply tumbled from the bar. “How nervous I am,” Maurizio said. His voice was agitated, polite, and intense. The butler returned with the ice. “You can put it there, Giovanni,” Maurizio said in his usual voice.

  Maurizio picked up the pitcher containing the mixture of gin and vermouth and returned to where Sergio was sitting. He dropped in some ice with a spoon and, pouring the mixture into a small glass, said, with some nervous anticipation, “Not only will I sign up, but I’ll donate two million lire to the Party … on the day you fulfill your promise.”

  He looked almost upset, overcome by a powerful, long-repressed happiness. Sergio could not help thinking that he seemed happy to join the Communist Party, and to obtain Lalla in the process. In other words, he had killed two birds with one stone. Sergio felt weak, and slightly faint. The blood drained from his face. In order to steady his nerves he gulped down his drink. Maurizio insisted: “So, how will we go about it?”

  “You’re very impatient,” Sergio said, looking at his friend.

  “You know I’m head over heels for her,” Maurizio said.

  “I’ll speak with her today … but I’m not sure she’ll agree.”

  “If you really want to, I’m sure you’ll convince her.”

  Sergio stood up, abruptly. “I’m leaving,” he said, adding, “don’t get up … I know the way.” He rushed out without waiting for an answer.

  [V]

  Two questions went round and round in Sergio’s

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  mind. Why had he taken the money? And why, once he had taken it, had he accepted Maurizio’s proposition to convert to Communism?

  He could answer the first question with relative ease: out of love for Lalla. But he knew that this was not the real reason. The truth was that he had accepted the money for reasons that were deeper, and more obscure. He felt the need to thrust Lalla into Maurizio’s arms, and this money was simply a means to that end; he had sold Lalla to Maurizio, like a piece of merchandise. Why did he feel this need to thrust Lalla into Maurizio’s arms? The obvious answer was that he wanted to convince Maurizio to become a Communist, but the second, more subtle, was closer to the truth: there was a struggle for power going on between them, and he wanted to vanquish his opponent. If he convinced Maurizio to join the Party it would be his victory, the proof of his power. Each of his actions had two motivations, one more generous and more noble, the other darker and more selfish. He had accepted the money so that Lalla would be able to look more presentable, and so that she would become Maurizio’s lover. He wanted her to become Maurizio’s lover so that he would join the Party, and in order to feel superior to him. Which was the true reason? Probably both, just as all our actions tend to be both disinterested and selfish.

  These were his thoughts as he waited impatiently for Lalla to come home. He had expected to find her there, but when he returned, the room was empty. The landlady could tell him only that Lalla had gone out shortly after he had. It was odd; he knew that she did not like to go out alone, and she was lazy. He also knew that she had no money, not even enough for a coffee.

  He waited for a long time until finally there was a knock on the door and the landlady told him that Lalla was on the phone. He picked up the receiver.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  “What do you mean, what am I doing?” Sergio asked, surprised. “I’m waiting for you.”

  Her voice wavered: “I’m here at … I’ve been

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  waiting.”

  “Where?”

  He could hear voices, as if Lalla were asking for the address. She said: “Listen, take a taxi for once in your life … Come to Via Sisto Quinto, number twenty-seven.”

  “Where?”

  “I can’t explain … I’m drunk … Just come.” She hung up.

  Feeling annoyed, Sergio took his overcoat from the coatrack and went out. He found a taxi in the piazza around the corner. From the look on the driver’s face he surmised that the address lay quite far away. The taxi traversed the entire city, went down a few suburban streets, and then up a hill, and finally turned onto a new road lined with a few very modern buildings. On one side of the road lay these new constructions, each set quite far from the next, while on the other, the lights of Rome glimmered in the darkness. The taxi stopped. “Number twenty-seven,” the driver grumbled, pointing at one of the new buildings, six or seven stories tall, looming in the darkness.

  Sergio paid and went inside. The foyer smelled of lime and recently waxed wood. It was not a luxurious building, but rather one of the new apartment complexes being built for the middle bourgeoisie, on lots that had until recently been farmland. As soon as he was inside, he realized that in her drunken state, Lalla had forgotten to tell him the apartment number or the name of the person she was visiting. “What now?” he wondered, looking around. He began to climb the stairs.

  On the phone, he had heard voices and music. As soon as he encountered noise coming from one of the doors, he stopped. The pale, blond wood door had a plaque with the name Moroni. He hesitated and then knocked.

  A young-looking maid came to the door. The shapely, almost elegant girl had blonde hair and wore a lot of makeup; her mouth was wide and red and she had blue eyes. Somewhat taken aback, Sergio asked if a young woman by the name of Lalla was there. There was a clamor of voices and a record player. The foyer, compact and bare except for two or three small objects, was empty. “There are so many people,”

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  the maid answered, “I don’t know … Wait here a moment and I’ll bring the master of the house.”

  She disappeared, and after a few minutes a man appeared; he looked to Sergio like a prosperous farmer or country merchant. “You must be Mr. Sergio,” he said, as soon as he saw him; “come in, come in, we’ve been waiting for you.”

  He looked about forty years old, a short man with a large head and a prominent brow, and extremely regular features, almost like a sculpture. His face had a rustic, serious air. His large nose and wide mouth—which curved upward at the corners—seemed to belong on a larger, more vigorous frame. His tousled, messy hair revealed a pale bald spot, and he had a wide, yellowish, hard, and pensive forehead. He introduced himself—“Moroni”—and led Sergio into the other room, the source of the music and voices.

  This room, which was rather small and almost empty of furniture except for a few chairs and a sofa in one corner, contained about twenty people. It was filled with smoke, and a record was playing; a few people danced. Sergio spotted Lalla in the arms of a young man with blond hair; he looked like an office worker, with thick glasses. As soon as she saw Sergio she walked up to him and exclaimed, “Sergio, you’re finally here,” embracing him emphatically. Sergio noticed that her breath smelled of alcohol. He took her in his arms and, pretending to dance, maneuvered her into the foyer. After releasing her arm, he asked: “What on earth are you doing here? Who is this Moroni, and who are the rest of these people?”

  She laughed: “Moroni is an angel.”

  “And you’re drunk,” Sergio said.

  “Yes, I’m drunk,” she said, “and you know why? Because our life is depressing … because we’re a pair of sad cases … When I drink, I can forget about it.”

  “Who is this Moroni?”

  “He’s one of my students,” Lalla answered, slowly. “I’ve mentioned him to you before … one of my English students.”

  It was true. He remembered Lalla’s mentioning a certain Moroni, but had forgotten the name. He looked at her: “You didn’
t mention this little gathering.”

  “I didn’t know about it. He called at the last minute … You were gone … so I came and then I called you.”

  “I’m hungry,” Sergio said, firmly; “I haven’t eaten.”

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  “There’s food in the other room,” Lalla said, pointing to a small room off the foyer. As if there was nothing left to say, she turned around and returned to the sitting room.

  Sergio went into the little dining room. Lalla was right: there was an abundance of food, and the room was empty. He picked up a plate, served himself some meat and vegetables, and sat down in a corner to eat. He began to feel contempt for Lalla, as if she had somehow become worthless in his eyes. He realized that this feeling was simply part of the preparation for what he was about to do: inform her of Maurizio’s proposition. He felt neither love nor affection for her, only a kind of impatience and incomprehension, as though her thoughts and complexities did not touch him in the least. What bothered him was her vacillating, exalted, inconsistent, irrational, and frivolous attitude toward life. She lived in a state of constant romanticism, based on nothing. In the end, he reflected, he would leave her, even without Maurizio’s intervention. As he sank into these cruel thoughts, Moroni entered the room.

  “I see you’ve eaten … Would you like anything else?”

  “I would like some wine,” Sergio answered abruptly, without looking up.

  Moroni went to the table, poured a glass of wine, and offered it to Sergio. “So, you are Signora Abbiati’s boyfriend.”

  Sergio was quietly surprised at the description, but did not comment: “Yes.”

  “The young lady,” Moroni continued, with a warm respect in his voice, “tells me that you will be getting married soon.”

  Sergio snapped to attention. Not only had he never asked Lalla to marry him, but it had never even occurred to him. And yet Lalla had mentioned marriage to this man who was her student. This proved that marriage was something she hoped for, that their situation made her uncomfortable, and that she would have liked to be his wife. He felt a sudden wave of compassion, mixed with irritation. “Yes, we should,” he answered vaguely.

  “Well,” Moroni continued, emphatically, “I must say that it makes me happy to hear it … Miss Lalla is a lovely girl, sweet, genuine, and intelligent. She

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  will,” he added, “be a lovely bride.”

  Sergio started at the word “bride,” with its old-fashioned, provincial air. Moroni continued: “I would like to be one of your witnesses. I’ve known Miss Lalla for over a year and I feel great affection for her … Please remember.”

  As he said this, his voice quivered. Sergio looked up and answered as kindly as he could: “Thank you … As soon as we’ve set the date we’ll let you know, of course.”

  Moroni seemed to be in the mood to trade confidences: “Do you know why I like her so much? I lost my wife, and Miss Lalla resembles her … I lost her when she was still young, more or less Miss Lalla’s age … The resemblance is quite strong … See for yourself.” He pulled out his wallet and removed a photograph, which he handed to Sergio. It was an old ID photo of Moroni’s late wife. The face—which was all one could see—looked as if it had been touched by death. One could barely make out the features. Sergio noted a slight resemblance, especially in the irregularity of the face, the large forehead, small nose, and wide mouth. But little else. He returned the photograph to Moroni: “It’s true, there is a certain resemblance.”

  “You see?” Moroni said. “It is truly extraordinary … I find it very moving,” he added, touching his face and looking, as he said, quite moved. Sergio peered up at him but said nothing. He had finished eating. Finally, he stood up, leaving his plate and glass on the table. Moroni rushed over: “I’m so sorry … I’m a bit upset; you see my wife was everything to me.”

  Sergio poured himself another glass of wine, in silence. “I would love to invite you to the country,” Moroni added, “I have a little house in Olevano …”

  “We would love to,” Sergio said, firmly, and headed toward the living room.

  Lalla was dancing with a young man with a great

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  mop of brown hair and thick glasses. Sergio noticed that she seemed very drunk: she shifted her feet clumsily and grasped her partner tightly, her hips moving awkwardly like an animal whose lower limbs have been affected by a strange paralysis. He sat in a corner, trying not to look at her: seeing her move so clumsily and with so little grace made him feel a wave of contempt and almost hatred, as toward something vile and almost worthless. After the song ended Lalla did not leave her partner; the two stood side by side in the middle of the room, talking. Then the dancing began again; there were more couples now, and Sergio saw that her shaggy-haired partner was casually leading Lalla toward another room, through a half-open door. They twisted and turned awhile longer near the door, after which the dancer lightly pushed the door open with the same hand he used to encircle Lalla’s waist, and they disappeared into the next room. The door, which the man had pushed from inside the room, was now in its original position, slightly ajar, and no one had noticed their disappearance. For a moment, Sergio did nothing as feelings of rage and jealousy washed over him. Finally, he pushed through the throng of dancers and opened the door to the other room. He stood in the doorway.

  As he had suspected, they were no longer dancing. The room contained a bed, an armoire, and a few other pieces of furniture. There were coats and hats everywhere. Lalla was sitting on the bed with her back to the door, struggling clumsily in the arms of the shaggy-haired man. She did not seem to be fighting very hard; one of her shoulders was already exposed and her blouse was sliding down her arm. The young man was insistently trying to twist her head so that their lips met. Lalla was still struggling, but just as Sergio came into the room she was beginning to put up less of a fight. Sergio went around to the bed and violently yanked the shoulder that was still covered. “Get up. Let’s go,” he growled.

  The young man let go and Lalla pulled away slightly, clumsily fixing her hair. “Who are you?” the man asked Sergio.

  “That’s none of your business,” Sergio replied. “You were right to bring her here … That’s how it’s done, isn’t it? After all, the signorina didn’t put up much of a fight, did she, so your conscience is clear.

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  But now the signorina is coming with me, because I am who I am.”

  “Listen here,” the man objected, standing up. Lalla was sobbing: “Sergio … stop it … leave me alone … go away.” As she said this, she rose lazily from the bed.

  “I’ll go, but you’re coming with me.”

  “Don’t move,” the other man said, in a more confident tone, as he walked up to Sergio. “Who are you?”

  “That’s right, who are you?” Lalla said in a drunken voice.

  Sergio stared at Lalla’s cheek. The skin was dark and covered with a fine down which, at the temples and around her ears, gradually merged with her hairline; her hair was combed up in a bun. He was tempted to become violent, but with a cold, almost experimental aggression. He raised a hand and slapped his lover, saying: “That’s who I am, and now let’s go.”

  She bowed her head, as if in defeat. “Stop that,” the bespectacled young man objected, but Sergio pushed him out of the way and he fell backward onto the bed, into a pile of overcoats. Gripping Lalla’s arm, Sergio pushed her out of the room, through the crowd of dancing guests and into the foyer, where they were joined by their host. “Are you leaving?”

  “Yes … Lalla’s not feeling well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.” Moroni mumbled a few more niceties, and repeated the invitation to his villa in Olevano. He held the door open for them. Lalla stared

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  down at the floor as she dressed mechanically and said good-bye to her student. Sergio continued to grip her arm as they descended the stairs. Once outside, Sergio hailed a taxi and they got in. As the taxi drove away, Se
rgio turned to Lalla and said, “You whore.”

  Lalla did not respond and simply sat in silence with her head down, as if lost in thought. As they passed a streetlamp, Sergio noticed that she was crying. For some reason, this rekindled his contempt, and he said, with conviction: “You’re just a whore … Anyone can have you … They don’t even have to pay you … Never mind your feelings of gratitude toward Maurizio … some whiskey is enough. Whore.”

  Still in silence, she shook her head and continued to cry. As the taxi sped along, Sergio felt his rage increasing. Suddenly unable to control himself, he said again: “You whore,” and hit her awkwardly on the back with his fist. Lalla moaned and hid her face in her hands.

  When they arrived, the taxi stopped and they got out. As Sergio paid, the driver observed: “That’s no way to talk to a woman.” He was almost an old man, with the air of a paterfamilias. Sergio stared at him for a moment and then silently grabbed Lalla’s arm, pushing her toward the door.

  They climbed up the stairs four by four, practically running. Lalla kept tripping, covering her face with one hand. Once they reached their landing, Sergio dragged her toward their room. He pushed her violently onto the bed. She fell heavily, making the bedsprings creak. Then he closed the door and turned on the light.

  Lalla was lying facedown on the bed with her face in her hands, sobbing loudly. Sergio sat down on the bed and said, furiously: “I can’t leave you alone for a moment without you doing something stupid … What’s wrong with you? What kind of a woman are you?”

  Without looking up, still sobbing, she replied: “Why are you so cruel, Sergio? I’m drunk, I already told you … and I’m so tired of this life, of being poor, tired of everything … That’s why men can do what they want with me … But why are you so cruel? Why don’t you try to understand?”

  An enraged lucidity had replaced everything else in Sergio’s mind. “So you’re tired of being poor?” he said, furiously. “Well look what I have here. I have money for you, look here … Get up and look.” He removed