He spoke politely like an educated person. Mother was unaccustomed to being talked to in that way and to being invited out, and for a moment she hesitated and stood looking at me.
“As far as I’m concerned, if Adriana wants to —” she then said.
“Let’s go to the wineshop down below,” I suggested.
“Wherever you like,” replied Gino.
Mother said she had to go and take off her apron, and we were left alone. I was full of innocent joy; I felt I had won an important battle, when in reality the whole thing was a play and the only person not acting a part was myself. I went up to Gino and before he could push me away I kissed him impulsively. The relief from all the anxiety that had troubled me for so long, the conviction that from now on the way was open for my marriage, my gratitude to Gino for his polite attitude to my mother, were all expressed in this kiss. I had no hidden purpose, I was entirely wholehearted in my love for Gino; and in my affection for my mother, I was sincere, trusting and naive, like any eighteen-year-old before disillusionment has brushed off the bloom. I did not learn until much later on that very few people like this kind of candor or are moved by it; for it appears ridiculous to most people and above all pushes them to be cruel.
We all three went out to the bar round the corner, just beyond the city walls. Gino took no further notice of me when we were seated, but gave himself up entirely to my mother, with the obvious intention of winning her over. This desire of his to ingratiate himself with Mother seemed perfectly logical to me, and I therefore paid little heed to the grossest forms of flattery and adulation he was expending upon her. He called her signora, a mode of address that was quite new to Mother, and he was careful to repeat it as often as he could, at the beginning or in the middle of his sentences, like a refrain. And then quite casually he would say, “You’re so clever, you’ll understand —”
“You’ve had experience, there’s really no need to tell you some things —” or again, even more briefly, “With your intelligence —” He even managed to tell her that at my age she must have been handsomer than I. “How can you tell?” I asked him, a little annoyed. “Oh! It’s quite plain to see — there are some things one just doesn’t need to be told,” he replied, in a genial and flattering tone. Mother, poor thing, stared at him with her eyes popping out of her head as he buttered her up in this way; she made radiant, coy, simpering faces. Then again I would see her lips moving as she silently repeated to herself the fulsome compliments he had showered upon her. It was obviously the first time in all her life that anyone had talked to her like this; and her thirsting heart seemed to be able to drink in his words forever. As far as I was concerned, these falsehoods seemed to show nothing other than affectionate respect for my mother and kind regard for me; and so I only had to add one more stroke to the already overcharged picture of Gino’s perfections.
Meanwhile a group of young men had come in and sat down at a table near ours. One of them, who seemed to be drunk and kept on staring at me, gave voice to an obscene but at the same time flattering remark about me. Gino heard it and got up immediately and went over to the young man.
“Would you mind repeating what you said!” he exclaimed.
“What the hell’s it got to do with you?” asked the young man, who was really drunk.
“This lady and this young girl are with me,” said Gino, raising his voice, “and as long as they’re with me their business is my business. Get it?”
“I get it, don’t worry — all right, it’s all right,” answered the young man, intimidated. The others seemed to be hostile to Gino, but did not dare to take their friend’s side, while he, pretending to be even drunker than he was, filled a glass and offered it to Gino, who refused it with a wave of his hand. “Won’t you drink?” shouted the young tippler. “Don’t you like wine? You’re wrong — it’s good wine. I’ll drink it myself.” And he gulped it down in one breath. Gino stared at him sternly for a moment, then returned to us.
“Ill-mannered people,” he said as he sat down and straightened his jacket with nervous gestures.
“You shouldn’t have troubled,” said my mother, highly flattered. “They’re only rough boys.”
But Gino was overwhelmed by this opportunity of parading his chivalry. “How could I have done otherwise?” he replied. “It would have been a different matter had I been with one of those — you, signora, will understand what I mean — quite a different matter, altogether.… But since I happened to be with two ladies, in a public place, in a restaurant — anyway he realized I was serious, and you see how he shut up.”
Mother was completely won over by this incident. Also, because Gino had made her drink and she found the wine as intoxicating as the flattery. But as so often happens to those who have drunk too much, in spite of her apparent surrender to Gino’s charm, she continued to harbor ill feelings about our engagement. And she seized the first opportunity of making it plain to him that, in spite of everything, she had not forgotten.
Her opportunity came during a conversation about my occupation as a model. I no longer remember how it was that I came to speak about a new artist for whom I had been posing that morning.
“I may be stupid, I may be old-fashioned, anything you like, but I really can’t swallow the fact that Adriana takes off all her clothes in front of these artists every day.” interrupted Gino.
“Why not?” asked Mother in a thick voice that warned me, knowing her as I did, of the storm that was brewing.
“Because, in a word, it isn’t moral.”
I shall not give my mother’s reply in its entirety, because it was sprinkled with the oaths and coarse expressions she always used when she had drunk too much or was overcome with anger. But even when I’ve toned it down, her speech reflects her ideas and feelings about the matter.
“Ah, so it isn’t moral, isn’t it?” she began to shout at the top of her voice, so that all the people at the other tables stopped eating and turned toward us. “Not moral — what is moral, I’d like to know? Perhaps it’s moral to work your fingers to the bone all day, wash up, sew, cook, iron, sweep, scrub floors, and then have your husband turn up in the evening so dead tired that as soon as his meal is done he goes to bed, turns his back on you, and sleeps? That’s what you call moral, is it? It’s moral to sacrifice yourself, never have time to breathe, to grow old and ugly, then croak? Do you want to know what I think? It’s that you only live once, and when you’re dead, you’re dead, and you and all your morality can go to the devil. Adriana’s perfectly right to show herself naked if people will pay her for doing it, and she’d do even better if —” A string of obscenities followed that made me writhe with shame because she shouted them all in the same piercing voice as the rest. “And if she were to do these things I wouldn’t lift a finger to prevent her — not only that, but I’d help her to it — yes, I would — as long as they paid her, of course,” she added, as if struck by an afterthought.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t really be able to bring yourself to do it,” said Gino, without appearing at all ruffled.
“Wouldn’t I? That’s what you say! What the devil do you think? Do you think I’m glad Adriana’s engaged to a deadbeat like you, a chauffeur? Wouldn’t I have been a thousand times happier if she had gone on the streets? Do you think I like the idea that Adriana, with all her beauty that could earn her thousands, is going to be your servant for the rest of her life? You’re wrong, utterly wrong.”
She continued to shout and with everyone turning their attention on us, I felt dreadfully ashamed. But Gino was not at all disconcerted. He seized a moment when Mother, panting and exhausted, was obliged to stop for lack of breath, to pick up the wine bottle and fill her glass, saying as he did so, “A little more wine?”
Poor Mother could not help saying, “Thanks,” and she accepted the glass he offered her. People who saw us drinking together as if nothing had occurred, despite her vehement outburst, went on with their own conversations.
“Adriana, with al
l her beauty, ought to lead the sort of life my mistress does,” said Gino.
“What sort of life?” I asked eagerly, being anxious to lead the conversation away from myself.
“In the morning,” he said in a vain and fatuous voice, as if bathing in the reflected glory of his employers’ wealth, “she gets up at eleven or twelve. She has her breakfast taken up to bed on a silver salver with heavy silverware. Then she has a bath, but first the maid puts some salts in the water to make it smell nice. At midday I take her out in the car — she goes to have a vermouth or to do some shopping. Then she goes home, has her lunch, lies down and then spends a couple of hours dressing. You ought to see how many dresses she’s got! Closets full of them. Then she goes out visiting in her car or has people over. They play cards, drink, put on music. They’re awfully rich people! She must have several millions’ worth of jewels alone.”
Mother’s thoughts were as easily distracted as a child’s, whom a trifle will put into a good mood. She had now forgotten all about me and the injustice of my fate, and was enthralled by the picture of such splendor.
“Millions!” she repeated greedily. “And is she beautiful?”
Gino, who was smoking, spat out a shred of tobacco scornfully. “Beautiful? She’s ugly — thin, looks like an old witch.”
They went on talking about the wealth of Gino’s mistress, or rather, Gino went on singing the praises of her wealth as if it were his own. But Mother, after her moment of curiosity, had fallen once more into a depressed and dissatisfied mood and did not utter another word all evening. Perhaps she was ashamed of her outburst; perhaps she was envious of all that wealth and was thinking resentfully of my engagement to a poor man.
Next day I asked Gino apprehensively whether Mother had offended him; he replied that although he did not share her ideas, he understood them perfectly, inspired as they were by a wretched life of deprivation. She was to be pitied, he said, and anyway, obviously she only spoke like that because she loved me. This was my feeling, too, and I was grateful to Gino for having understood her so well. Gino’s moderation not only filled me with gratitude, but was one more item to be added to the list of his perfections. If I had been less blinded and inexperienced, I would have reflected that only calculated deceit can create such a sense of perfection, and that real sincerity gives a picture of many faults and shortcomings, together with a few good qualities.
The fact of the matter is that I now found myself, in comparison with Gino, in a constant state of inferiority. I seemed to have given him almost nothing in exchange for his patience and understanding. Perhaps my state of mind, as one who had received many kindnesses and felt called upon to reciprocate them, explains why I made no resistance, as I would have done earlier, when his love making became even bolder. But I must also admit, as I have already said about our first kiss, that I felt impelled to give myself to him by a most powerful yet, at the same time, most exquisite force; it was something akin to the power of sleep, which occasionally, in order to conquer our contrary will, induces us to drop off by means of a dream that we are still awake; and so we yield, being convinced that we are still resisting.
I can remember all the phases of my seduction perfectly, because I desired and at the same time repulsed each step taken by Gino; it gave me both pleasure and remorse. Each step, too, was taken gradually. He proceeded neither hurriedly nor impatiently, but as if he were a general invading a country rather than a lover carried away by desire, as he explored my passive body, from my lips down to my thighs. I do not mean to imply, however, that Gino did not really fall in love with me later on, his scheming and calculation did give place to a deep, insatiable desire, even if it was not love.
During our outings in the car, he had been content so far to kiss my mouth and neck. But one morning, while he was kissing me, I felt his fingers fumbling with the buttons on my blouse. Then I had a feeling that I was cold, and looking over his shoulder toward the mirror over the windshield I saw that one of my breasts was uncovered. I was ashamed but did not like to cover myself again. It was Gino who, hastily guessing the cause of my embarrassment, pulled the edges of my blouse together again over my breast and himself did up all the buttons. I was grateful to him for this gesture. But later, when I thought it over at home, I felt excited and attracted. Next day he repeated the gesture, and this time I felt more pleasure and less shame. From that time I became accustomed to this demonstration of his desire, and I think that if he had not repeated it, I would have been afraid he no longer loved me so much.
Meanwhile he talked ever more frequently of the life we would lead when we were married. He also spoke about his family who lived in the provinces and were not really poor, since they even owned some strips of land. I believe he really came, like most liars, to believe his own lies in the end. Certainly his feelings for me were very strong and probably, since we became more intimate every day, they became more sincere as well. As for myself, his talk lulled my uneasiness and gave me a feeling of perfect, naive happiness such as I have never experienced at any time since then. I loved, I was loved, I imagined I would shortly be married. I thought I wanted nothing more on Earth.
Mother realized at once that our morning trips were not exactly innocent and let me see she knew it by such phrases as “I don’t know what you and Gino are up to when you’re out in that car, and I don’t want to know, either,” or, “You and Gino are up to some mischief, all the worse for you,” and so on. But I could not help noticing that this time her scolding seemed surprisingly mild and ineffective. She not only seemed resigned to the idea that Gino and I were lovers, but also, at heart, to desire it. I am sure now that she was on the lookout for an opportunity to break off my engagement.
3
ONE SUNDAY GINO TOLD ME that his employers had left for the country, that the maids had all gone off on holiday to their own villages, and that the villa had been left in charge of himself and the gardener. Did I want him to show me over it? He had spoken about the villa so often and in such glowing terms that I was longing to visit it, and I therefore accepted gladly. But in the very instant of accepting, a yearning excitement inside me made me realize that my curiosity to see the villa was nothing more than an excuse, and that the real motive behind my visit was something quite different. Nevertheless, I pretended to myself and to Gino that I believed my own excuse, as we always do when we long for something and at the same time try not to.
“I know I shouldn’t come,” I warned him as I got into the car, “but we won’t stay long, will we?”
I was conscious of saying these words in a provocative and at the same time rather hesitant manner.
“Just long enough to see over the house — then we’ll go to the movies,” said Gino reassuringly.
The villa stood among other villas in a little street on a slope, in a new and well-to-do district. It was a peaceful day and all those villas outlined on the hillside against the blue sky, with their red brick or white stone facades, their loggias adorned with statues, their glassed-in porches, terraces and verandas blooming with geraniums, and the tall leafy trees in the gardens between each house, gave me a sense of novelty and discovery, as if I were entering a freer and more beautiful world, where it would have been pleasant to live. I could not help remembering my own district, the road running along the city walls, the railwaymen’s houses, and I said to Gino, “I was wrong to come here.”
“Why?” he asked coolly. “We won’t stay long — don’t worry.
“You don’t see what I mean!” I replied. “I was wrong, because afterward I’ll be ashamed of my own house and neighborhood.”
“You’re right there,” he said with relief, “but what can you do about it? You ought to have been born a millionaire — only millionaires live up here.”
He opened the gate and led the way down a gravel path between two rows of little trees trimmed into a shape of cubes and rounds. We entered the villa by a plate-glass door and found ourselves in a bare, gleaming entrance hall, with a black-
and-white-check marble floor, polished like a mirror. From here we went into a larger hall, light and spacious, with the ground-floor rooms leading out of it. At the end of the hall a white staircase led to the upper floor. I was so scared at the sight of this hall that I began walking on tiptoe. Gino noticed me and told me, laughing, that I could make as much noise as I liked, since nobody was at home.
He showed me the drawing room, a huge place with many mirrors and sets of armchairs and sofas; the dining room, which was a little smaller, with an oval table, chairs, and sideboard made of a beautiful dark and polished wood; the linen room full of white varnished wall cupboards. In a smaller sitting room there was even a bar arranged in a niche in the wall, a real bar with shelves for the bottles, a nickel-plated coffee machine and a zinc counter; it was like a little chapel; there was even a little gilded gateway that shut it off. I asked Gino where they did the cooking, and he told me the kitchen and servants’ rooms were in the basement. It was the first time in my life that I had been in a house of this kind, and I could not help fingering things, as if unable to believe my own eyes. Everything looked new to me and made of precious materials — glass, wood, marble, metals, fabrics. I could not help comparing those walls and that furniture with the dirty floors, blackened walls, and rickety furniture in my own house, and I told myself my mother was right when she said money was the only thing that mattered in the world. I supposed the people living among all those lovely things could not help being lovely and good themselves; they could not possibly drink or swear or shout or hit one another, or do any of the things I had seen done in my own home and others like it.
Meanwhile, for the hundredth time, Gino was explaining with extraordinary pride the way life was lived in a place like that, as if he were bathing in the reflected glory of all that luxury and ease. “They eat off china plates; but they have silver ones for dessert and sweets. The knives and forks are all silver — they have five different courses and drink three kinds of wine. The mistress wears a low-necked dress in the evening and the master a black dinner suit. When dinner’s over the parlormaid hands round seven kinds of cigarettes, foreign brands, of course, on a silver tray. Then they go out of the dining room and have coffee and liqueurs wheeled in on the little table over there. They always have guests, sometimes two, sometimes four. The mistress has got some diamonds as big as this! and a marvelous pearl necklace — she must have several millions’ worth of jewels.”
The Woman of Rome (Italia) Page 4
