The Woman of Rome (Italia)

by Alberto Moravia

  “Gino didn’t think of giving you anything to eat, eh?” she added after a while, almost without bitterness.

  “We fell asleep,” I answered, “and afterward it was too late.”

  She said nothing, but stood watching me while I ate. She always did this — served me and watched me while I ate, then went to eat by herself in the kitchen. For a long time now, she had not eaten with me at the same table; and she always ate less, either my leftovers or some other food not so good as mine. I was a delicate, precious object in her eyes, the only one she had, someone to be treated with every care; and, for some time now, her flattering and admiring servility had ceased to astonish me. But now her calm satisfaction gave me an uneasy sense of anxiety.

  “You’re angry with me because we made love — but he’s promised to marry me. We’ll get married very soon,” I said after a while.

  “I’m not angry with you,” she replied immediately. “I was at the moment, because I’d been waiting for you all evening and I was worried — but don’t think about it anymore — eat.”

  Her deceptively reassuring and evasive tone, like the tone people use in speaking to children when they don’t want to answer their questions, made me even more suspicious.

  “Why?” I insisted. “Don’t you believe he’ll marry me?”

  “Yes, yes, I believe it, but go on, eat.”

  “No, you don’t believe it.”

  “I do, don’t worry — eat.”

  “I won’t eat any more,” I said, driven to the point of exasperation, “until you tell me the truth — why are you looking pleased?”

  “I’m not.”

  She picked up the empty dish and took it into the kitchen. I waited until she came back and then repeated, “Are you glad?”

  She looked at me for a long time in silence, and then answered, in a threatening, serious tone, “Yes, I’m glad.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m quite sure now that Gino won’t marry you, and he’ll ditch you.”

  “He won’t. He said he’d marry me.”

  “He won’t marry you — he’ll have some fun with you, but he won’t give you even a pin, penniless as he is, and then he’ll leave you.”

  “Is that what you’re glad about?”

  “Of course! Because now I’m quite sure you won’t marry each other.”

  “But what does it matter to you?” I exclaimed, hurt and irritated.

  “If he wanted to marry you, he wouldn’t have made love to you,” she said suddenly. “I was engaged to your father for two years, and until a few months before we were married, he only gave me a kiss or two — he’ll have a good time with you and then ditch you, you can count on it! And I’m glad he’ll leave you, because if he married you, you’d be ruined.”

  I could not help admitting to myself that some of the things Mother was saying were true, and my eyes filled with tears.

  “I know what it is,” I said. “You don’t ever want me to have a family; you’d rather see me begin to lead a life like Angelina’s!” Angelina was a girl in our neighborhood who had openly begun to be a prostitute after two or three broken engagements.

  “I want you to be comfortably off,” she replied gruffly. And when she had picked up the plates, she took them into the kitchen to wash them up. When I was alone, I began to think over her words at some length. I compared them with Gino’s promises and behavior, and I did not feel that Mother could possibly be right. But her certainty, her calm, the cheerful way in which she looked ahead, disquieted me. Meanwhile she was washing up the plates in the kitchen. Then I heard her put them on the dresser and go into her bedroom. After a while I went to join her in bed, feeling tired and dispirited.

  Next day I wondered whether I ought to mention Mother’s doubts to Gino; but after much hesitation I decided not to. The truth of the matter was, I was so afraid that Gino would leave me, as Mother had insinuated, that I dared not mention her opinion to him in case I put the idea into his head. For the first time I realized that by giving herself to a man, a woman places herself in his hands and no longer has any means of forcing him to behave as she wishes. But I was still convinced that Gino would keep his promise, and his behavior, as soon as I met him, strengthened me in this conviction.

  Certainly I was looking forward to his many attentions and caresses, but I was afraid he would not mention marriage or would only speak of it in a general way. Instead, as soon as the car stopped in the usual avenue, Gino told me he had fixed the date for the wedding in five months’ time, not a day longer. I was so delighted that I could not help bursting out, as though Mother’s ideas had been my own, “Do you know what I thought? I thought that after what happened yesterday, you would leave me.”

  “What the … !” he said with an offended look. “Do you take me for a brute?”

  “No, but I know lots of men act like that.”

  “You know,” he continued, without noticing my reply, “I could have been offended by what you thought about me? What idea do you thave of me? Is this how you love me?”

  “I do love you,” I said ingenuously. “But I was afraid you wouldn’t love me anymore.”

  “Have I shown you in any way so far that I don’t love you?”

  “No — but you never know.”

  “Look,” he said suddenly, “you’ve put me into such a bad mood that I’m going to take you straight to the studio.” And he made as if to start the car up at once.

  Terrified, I threw my arms round his neck and begged him not to. “No, Gino, what’s come over you? I was only talking — forget it.” I pleaded.

  “When you say such things, it means you think them — and if you think them, it means you aren’t in love.”

  “But I do love you.”

  “I don’t love you, though!” he said sarcastically. “I’ve only been playing with you, as you say, with the idea of leaving you — funny thing you didn’t realize it until now.”

  “But, Gino,” I exclaimed, bursting into tears, “why do you talk to me like this? What have I done to you?”

  “Nothing,” he said, starting up the car, “but now I’m going to take you to the studio.

  The car started off, with Gino sitting bolt upright and serious at the wheel; and I let myself go entirely, sobbing as I watched the trees and milestones slipping past the window, and saw the outline of the first houses in the town on the horizon beyond the fields. I imagined how Mother would crow over our quarrel, if ever she came to know of it and found out that Gino, as she had predicted, had left me. Driven by despair, I open the door and leaned out.

  “Either you stop or I’ll throw myself under the car!” I cried.

  He looked at me, the car slowed down and then turning up a sidepath he brought it to a standstill behind a little hillock topped by ruins. He switched off the engine, put on the emergency brake, and then turned to me.

  “All right,” he said impatiently, “say what you have to say — go on.”

  Believing he really meant to leave me, I began to speak with a passion and ardor that seem both ridiculous and touching as I look back on them today. I explained how much I loved him; I even went so far as to tell him I did not care whether we were married or not, so long as I could continue to be his lover. He listened to me, sullen-faced, shaking his head and repeating every now and again, “No, no — it’s no use today — perhaps I’ll have got over it by tomorrow.” But when I said I would be content to be his lover he retorted firmly, “No, it must be marriage or nothing.” We continued arguing in this way for some time and by his perverse logic he often drove me to despair and made me cry again. Then, little by little, he appeared to change his inflexible attitude; and at last, after I had kissed him and caressed him in vain, I seemed to have won a great victory when I persuaded him to leave the front seat of the car and make love to me in the back seat, in an uncomfortable posture, which in my anxiety to please him, was too quick for me and bitterly exhausting. I ought to have realized that by behaving like this I was
not the victor in any sense, but, on the contrary, was placing myself even more in his hands, if only because I showed I was ready to give myself to him, not merely because I loved him, but in order to coax and persuade him when words failed me — which is just what all women do when they love without being sure that their love is reciprocated. But I was completely blinded by the perfect behavior his cunning had taught him to assume.

  The date of the wedding had been set, and I immediately began to concentrate on my preparations. I decided with Gino that at first we would go to live with my mother. In addition to the living room, kitchen, and bedroom, there was a fourth room in the apartment, which my mother had never furnished for lack of money. We kept useless, broken junk in it; and you can imagine what useless, broken junk was in a house like ours where everything seemed useless and broken. After discussing the matter endlessly, we fixed our minimum requirements — we would furnish this one room and I would make myself something of a trousseau. Mother and I were very poor; but I knew she had saved something and that she had scraped and saved for me, in order to be prepared, as she said, for any eventuality. What exactly this eventuality was supposed to be was never quite clear, but it was certainly not my marriage to a poor man with an unsettled future.

  I went to Mother and said to her, “That money you’ve set aside is for me, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well then, if you want me to be happy, give it to me now to furnish the room where Gino and I can live — if you’ve really saved it for me, now is the time to spend it.”

  I expected argument, discussion, and in the end a blunt refusal. But instead, Mother welcomed the suggestion eagerly, showing once more the same sardonic calm that had so disconcerted me the evening after I had been to the villa with Gino.

  “And he’s giving nothing?” was all she asked.

  “Of course he is,” I lied. “He’s already said so — but I must give something too.”

  She was sewing by the window and had stopped her work in order to talk to me. “Go into my room,” she said. “Open the top drawer in the bureau, where you’ll find a cardboard box. My savings book is in it and also my bits of gold — take both the book and the gold — you can have them.”

  The bits of gold did not amount to much — a ring, two earrings, a little chain. But ever since I was a baby, that little treasure, concealed among rags and only glimpsed in extraordinary circumstances, had aroused my imagination. Impulsively I hugged Mother. She pushed me away, not roughly but coldly, saying, “Mind — I’ve got a needle — you’ll prick yourself.”

  But I was not content. It was not enough to have got what I wanted and even more; I also wanted Mother to share my happiness. “Mother,” I said, “if you’re only doing it to please me, I don’t want it.”

  “Of course I’m not doing it to please him,” she replied, taking up her sewing again.

  “You don’t really believe I’ll marry Gino, do you?” I asked her tenderly.

  “I’ve never believed it, and today less than ever.”

  “Then why are you giving me the money to do the room up?”

  “That’s not throwing money away. You’ll always have the furniture and linen — money or goods, it’s the same thing.”

  “Won’t you come round the shops with me and choose the things?”

  “Good Lord!” she shouted, “I don’t want to have anything to do with it at all. Do what you like, go where you like, choose what you like — I don’t want to know anything.”

  She was quite unapproachable on the question of my marriage; and I realized that her unreasonableness was not due so much to her idea of Gino’s character, ways, and means, as to her own way of looking at life. So there was a kind of silent wager on between Mother and me — she wanted my marriage to fall through and me to become convinced of the excellence of her own plans, and I wanted the marriage to go on and Mother to be persuaded that my way of looking at things was right. I therefore clung even more ardently to the hope of being married; it was as though I were gambling my whole life desperately on a single card. I was bitterly conscious all the time that Mother was watching my efforts and hoping to herself that they would fail.

  I must mention here that Gino’s model behavior never broke down, not even during the preparations for our wedding. I had told Mother that Gino had given me something toward the expenses; but I had lied, because until then he had never hinted at such a thing. I was surprised and at the same time exaggeratedly delighted when Gino, without my asking him, offered me a small sum of money to help me out. He apologized for the smallness of the sum by saying that he could not give more because he often had to send money home. Today, when I think back on his offer, I can find no other explanation of it than that he gloried in being meticulously faithful to the part he had decided to play. Perhaps this faithfulness had its origin in his remorse at having deceived me and his regret at not being in the position to marry me, as he really wanted to at that time. I hastened triumphantly to tell Mother of Gino’s offer. She contented herself with saying how small it was — not so little as to make him look cheap, but just enough to throw dust in my eyes.

  I was very happy during this period of my life. I used to meet Gino every day and we made love wherever we could — on the back seat of the car, or standing up in a dark corner in some deserted street, or in a field in the country, or at the villa again in Gino’s room. One night when he took me home, we made love in the dark on the landing outside my front door, lying on the floor. Another time we made love at the movies, huddled together at the back right underneath the projection room. I liked joining the crowds in the streetcars and public places with him beside me, because people pushed me up against him and I took advantage of this to press my body to his. The whole time I wanted to squeeze his hand or ruffle his hair or caress him in some way, anywhere, even when others were present, and I almost tricked myself into believing it would not be noticed, as we always do when we give way to some irresistible passion. The act of love delighted me, perhaps I loved love itself even more than I did Gino, for I felt myself impelled to it, not only by my feelings for Gino, but also by the pleasure I derived from it. Of course, I did not imagine I could have had the same pleasure from any other man but Gino. But I realized in a dim way that the ardor, the skill, the passion I put into my caresses were not to be accounted for merely by the fact that we were in love. They had a character of their own, as if I had a gift for lovemaking that even without Gino would have shown itself sooner or later.

  But the idea of my marriage took first place. In order to save money, I helped Mother all I could and often stayed up late. By day, if I was not posing in the studios, I went round the shops with Gino to choose our furniture and the material for my trousseau. I had little to spend and, for this very reason, I looked about all the more carefully. I even made them bring out things I knew I could not buy, and turned them over at my leisure, discussing their value and haggling over the price; afterward I assumed a dissatisfied air or promised I would return, then left the shop without having purchased anything. I did not realize it, but these frantic expeditions to the shops, this exhausting handling of goods I could not afford, brought home to me the truth of what Mother had said — that there was little happiness to be had without money. This was the first time, after my visit to the villa, that I had a paradise of wealth, and since I felt excluded from it through no fault of my own, I could not help being rather embittered and upset. But I tried through lovemaking to forget this injustice, as I had done at the villa. Love was my only luxury, it alone made me feel I was the equal of many other women richer and more fortunate than I.

  At last, after much discussion and research, I decided on my extremely modest purchases; and I bought a suite of furniture in modern style, on the installment plan because I had not enough money to pay for it outright — there was a double bed, a chest of drawers with a mirror, bedside tables, chairs, and a wardrobe. It was common stuff, cheap and roughly made, but no one would beli
eve the passion I felt immediately for these few sticks of furniture. I had had the walls of the room whitewashed, the doors and windowpanes varnished, the floor scraped, so that our room was a kind of island of cleanliness in the filthy sea surrounding us.

  The day the furniture came was certainly the happiest in my life. I could hardly believe that a clean, tidy, light room like that, smelling of whitewash and varnish, was my very own; and this incredulity was mixed with an endless feeling of satisfaction. Sometimes when I was sure Mother was not watching, I went into my room, sat down on the bare mattress and stayed there for hours looking around me. Still as a statue, I gazed on my new possessions as if I were unable to believe they were real and was afraid they might vanish into thin air at any moment, leaving the room empty. Or else I got up and lovingly dusted them and heightened their polish. I think that if I had really let myself give way to my feelings, I would have kissed them. The curtainless window looked down onto a huge, dirty courtyard of a prison or hospital, but entranced as I was, I no longer paid any attention to it; I felt as happy as if the room looked out on a beautiful garden filled with trees. I imagined the life Gino and I would lead there — how we would sleep, make love. I had in mind other things I intended to buy as soon as I could — a vase, a lamp, an ashtray, or some other ornament over in the corner. My only regret was that I could not have a bathroom like the one I had seen at the villa, with shining white tiles and faucets, or at least a new, clean one. I was determined to keep my room extremely neat and clean. The visit to the villa had convinced me that a luxurious life began with order and cleanliness.

  4

  SOMEWHERE ABOUT THIS TIME, while I was still continuing to pose in the studios, I struck up a friendship with another model called Gisella. She was a tall, well-made girl, with a very white skin, dark curly hair, small, deepset blue eyes, and a large red mouth. Her character was quite the opposite of mine. She was quick-tempered, sharp, and spiteful, and at the same time practical and self-seeking; perhaps it took these very differences to unite us in friendship. I knew of no other work she had besides that of being a model, but she dressed far better than I could, and did not conceal the fact that she received presents and money from a man she introduced as her fiancé. I remember how I envied her black jacket with collar and cuffs of astrakhan that she often wore that winter. Her fiancé’s name was Riccardo; he was a tall, placid, heavily built young man, with a face as smooth as an egg, which I thought very handsome at the time. He was always sleek and shining, smothered in brilliantine, and wore new suits; his father kept a shop for men’s underwear and ties. He was simple to the point of silliness, good-natured, cheerful, and probably quite decent. He and Gisella were lovers, and I do not think there was any talk of marriage between them, as there was between Gino and me. But Gisella, like me, aimed at marriage, without setting too many hopes on it. As for Riccardo, I am sure the idea of marrying Gisella never crossed his mind.