His face was full of jealous suspicion. “Gino,” I said hurriedly. “I love you and haven’t ever loved you so much as I do now — but just because I love you I’ve made up my mind that there shouldn’t be anything like that between us again until we’re married — I mean no lovemaking.”
“Ah, now it all comes clear!” he said scornfully. “You’re afraid I won’t want to marry you.”
“No, I’m sure you’ll marry me. If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t be making such preparations and wouldn’t spend Mother’s money that she’s been saving all her life.”
“What a big deal you make of your mother’s money!” he said. He had become really unpleasant and I could hardly recognize him. “Why, then?”
“I went to confession, and the priest told me I mustn’t make love with you anymore until we’re married.”
He made a gesture of disappointment and a word escaped him that sounded to me like an oath. “What business has that priest to stick his nose into our affairs?”
I preferred to remain silent.
“Why don’t you say anything?” he insisted.
“I haven’t anything more to say.”
I must have seemed absolutely determined, because he suddenly changed his mind. “All right,” he said, “anything you say.… Do you want me to take you back into town?”
“If you will.”
I must say this was the only time he was unpleasant and unkind to me. By the following day he seemed resigned and was his usual affectionate self, full of polite attentions. So we continued to meet every day as before, except that we did not make love anymore but only talked to one another. Every now and again I gave him a kiss, although he had made it a point of honor not to ask me for one. I did not feel kissing him was really a sin, because, after all, we were engaged and soon to be married. When I think over that time nowadays, I imagine Gino was led to resign himself so quickly to his new part as a respectful fiancé by the hope of gradually diminishing the warmth of our relationship and bringing me, little by little, to a kind of rupture, almost without my being aware of the fact. A lot of girls, without realizing what is happening find themselves free once more after long and exhausting engagements, with no harm done except that the best part of their youth has passed. All unawares, when I told him of the priest’s injunction, I had given him the excuse he was undoubtedly seeking to ease up our engagement. He certainly would never have had the courage by himself since he had a weak, selfish character, and the pleasure he derived from our relationship was greater than his desire to abandon me. The confessor’s intervention gave him an opportunity to adopt a hypocritical and apparently disinterested solution.
After some time he began to meet me less often, only every other day. And I noticed that our trips in the car were briefer each time, and he was more and more absentminded when I talked of our plans for getting married. But although I vaguely sensed this change in his attitude, I suspected nothing, since these were only small things, trivialities, and he continued to behave in his usual kindly, affectionate way to me. One day he told me, with an apologetic look on his face, that for family reasons he would have to postpone the date of our marriage until after the summer.
“Are you awfully upset?” he added, seeing that I made no comment on what he had said, and only looked in front of me with a bitter, blank expression.
“No, no —” I said, pulling myself together, “— it doesn’t matter — it can’t be helped. It’ll give me time to finish my trousseau.”
“You’re lying. You do mind a lot.” It was odd how he wanted me to be upset at the postponement of our wedding.
“I don’t.”
“Then, if you aren’t upset it means you don’t really love me, and maybe actually you wouldn’t mind if we never got married at all.”
“Don’t talk like that!” I exclaimed in alarm. “It would be terrible for me. I don’t even want to think of it.”
At that time I failed to understand the expression that passed across his face. Actually, he had wanted to test my affection and had realized to his dismay that it was still very strong.
Although the postponement of my marriage was not enough to rouse my own suspicions, it strengthened Mother’s and Gisella’s original convictions. Mother made no comment on the news at all, as was sometimes her way (and this was strange behavior on her part, given her violent and impulsive nature). But one evening while she was giving me my supper as usual, standing silently watchful for what I might need, I made some reference to the wedding.
“Do you know what they used to call a girl like you, in my day, a girl who keeps on waiting to get married and never does?”
I went pale and felt faint. “What?”
“A girl in the cooler,” said Mother placidly. “He’s keeping you in the cooler like leftover meat. But sometimes meat goes bad through being kept and then it gets thrown away.”
I was enraged. “It isn’t true!” I said. “It’s the first time we’ve put it off, and only for a few months. The fact is you’re furious with Gino because he’s a chauffeur and not a gentleman.”
“I’m not furious with anyone.”
“Yes, you are — and because you had to spend money on the room for us, but you don’t need to worry.”
“Love’s made you stupid, my girl!”
“Don’t worry, I tell you — he’ll pay back all the rest of the installments, and we’ll give you every penny you’ve spent. Look.” Carried away by passion I opened my bag and showed her the banknotes Astarita had given me. “That’s money of his,” I went on, and I was so infatuated that I almost believed my own lies. “He gave me this — and he’ll give me more.”
She gaped at the money and put on a sorry, disappointed look that filled me with remorse. I had not been so unkind to her for a long time now; and also I knew perfectly well that I had been lying and that Gino had not really given me the money at all. Without saying a word, she cleared the table, took up the plates, and went out of the room. After a moment’s angry reflection, I got up and followed her. I saw her from the back, standing upright in front of the sink busy washing the plates, which she put down one by one on the marble drainboard, her head and shoulders slightly bowed, and I felt a rush of pity for her. Impulsively I threw my arms around her neck. “Forgive me for what I said,” I pleaded. “I didn’t really think it. But when you talk about Gino that way, you drive me out of my mind.”
“Go on — leave me alone,” she answered, pretending to struggle with me to free herself from my embrace.
“But you’ve got to understand!” I added passionately. “If Gino doesn’t marry me, I’ll either kill myself or go on the streets.”
Gisella took the news that my marriage had been postponed in much the same way that Mother had done. We were in her furnished room when I told her. I was sitting fully clothed on the edge of the bed, and she was in her nightgown combing her hair in front of the dressing table. She let me get to the end without comment, then said with triumphant assurance, “You see, I was right.”
“Why?”
“He doesn’t want to marry you and won’t ever marry you. Now it isn’t going to be at Easter but at All Saints — then it’ll be put off until Christmas — and then one day you’ll get it in your head at last and you’ll be the one to leave him.”
Her words made me angry and unhappy. But I had already let myself go with Mother, so to speak, and anyway I knew that if I were to say what I thought, I would have to break off my friendship with Gisella. I did not want to do this, because she was, after all, my only friend. I ought to have said what I thought: that she did not want me to get married because she knew Riccardo would never marry her. This was the truth, but it was too spiteful a thing to say and I did not think it was fair to hurt Gisella just because she could not help giving way to her own feelings of envy and jealousy when she spoke of Gino.
I contented myself with saying, “Let’s not talk about it any more, all right? It doesn’t really matter to you whether I get
married or not — and it hurts me to talk about it.”
She suddenly left her place at the dressing table and came to sit beside me on the bed. “What do you mean — it doesn’t matter to me?” she protested. “It matters a lot to me to see you being led by the nose like this,” she added, putting her arm round my waist.
“But I’m not!” I said in a low voice.
“And I’d like to see you happy,” she continued. She was silent for a moment. “By the way,” she then said casually, “Astarita is always bothering me because he wants to see you again — he says he can’t live without you — he’s really in love with you! Do you want me to make a date for you with him?”
“Don’t mention Astarita to me,”-I said.
“He realized he behaved badly on that trip we took to Viterbo,” she continued, “but it was only because he loves you — he insists on seeing you, speaking to you. Why shouldn’t you meet in a café, for instance, with me there, too?”
“No,” I replied decisively. “I don’t want to see him.”
“You’ll be sorry.”
“You go out with Astarita!”
“I would like a shot, my dear! He’s a generous man and he doesn’t care what he spends — but he wants you; it’s a fixation with him.”
“Yes, I know, but I don’t want him.”
She continued arguing in Astarita’s favor, but I would not let myself be persuaded. Just because I was afraid Gisella and Mother might be right and for some reason or other my marriage might come to nothing, I clung to the idea of marriage with an even greater and more tenacious hope.
6
MEANWHILE, I HAD PAID OFF ALL the installments on the furniture and had begun to work even harder than ever to earn more money to pay for my trousseau. In the morning I posed in the studios, in the afternoon I shut myself in the living room with Mother and sewed until nightfall. She worked at the sewing machine, by the window, and I sat a little way off at the table, sewing by hand. Mother had taught me to be a seamstress, and I have always been very quick and good at it. There were always a number of buttonholes and eyelets to make and reinforce, and every shirt had to be initialed. I knew how to do initials particularly well, raised and firm, so that they seemed to stand out against the material. We specialized in men’s wear, but sometimes we would make a blouse or chemise or a pair of women’s underwear, but it was only cheap stuff because Mother did not know how to embroider and did not know any ladies who would give her orders.
While I was sewing, my mind wandered among thoughts of Gino, marriage, the Viterbo trip, Mother, my own life in fact, and the time passed quickly. What Mother used to think about I never knew, but she certainly thought about something, because when she was working the machine she always looked furious and if I spoke to her usually answered crossly. Toward evening, as soon as it began to get dark, I got up, shook off the ends of cotton and after I had put on my best clothes, I used to go out and meet Gisella, or, when he was off duty, Gino. I wonder today whether I was really happy. In a certain sense I was, because I was longing for something that I thought was near and attainable. Since then I have discovered that real unhappiness comes when all hope is gone, and then it is no use being well-off and in need of nothing.
More than once at this time, I noticed that I was being followed through the streets by Astarita. This used to happen very early in the morning when I was on my way to the studios. Astarita usually waited for me to come out, standing in a recess in the city wall on the opposite side of the road. He never crossed over, and while I walked hurriedly toward the square, skirting the houses, he contented himself with following me at a slower pace, hugging the walls. He was watching me, I suppose, and that was enough for him: behavior typical of a man so deeply in love. When I reached the square, he went and stood at the streetcar stop, just facing me. He continued to watch me, but I had only to look at him for him to grow embarrassed and pretend to be gazing up the road to see if the streetcar was coming. No woman can remain indifferent in the face of love of this nature; and even I, although I was determined never to speak to him, sometimes felt a flattered kind of pity for him. Then, depending on the day, either Gino or the streetcar would come along, and I would either get in with Gino or into the streetcar, and Astarita would be left where he stood, watching me as I vanished into the distance.
One evening when I reached home, I found Astarita standing hat in hand in the living room, leaning against the table and chatting with Mother. I forgot all pity and was filled with anger at seeing him in my house, especially when I thought what he might be saying to Mother to win her over to plead with me on his behalf.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
He gazed at me and his face began to twitch convulsively, as it had in the car on the way to Viterbo when he told me he liked me. But this time he was unable even to speak. “This gentleman says he knows you,” Mother began confidentially. “He wanted to see how you were.” I realized from her tone that Astarita had talked to her exactly as I had thought he would, and probably had even given her money. “Do me a favor, get out of here,” I said to her. She was alarmed, for my voice was almost savage, and went out into the kitchen without replying.
“What are you doing here? Go away!” I again said to Astarita. He looked at me and appeared to move his lips, but said nothing. His eyelids drooped right over his eyes, and I could almost see the whites; he looked to me as thought he might fall right down in a fit. “Go away,” I repeated loudly, stamping on the floor, “otherwise I’ll call out for help — I’ll call a friend of ours who lives below.”
I have often asked myself why Astarita did not try to blackmail me a second time by threatening to tell Gino what had happened at Viterbo if I did not yield to him. He could have blackmailed me with more likelihood of success this time, because he really had had me; there were witnesses and I could not deny it. I have come to the conclusion that the first time he only desired me and the second he loved me. Love longs to be reciprocated, and now that Astarita loved me, he must have felt how unsatisfactory his possession of me had been that day at Viterbo, when I lay dumb and inert like a corpse. But this time I was determined at all costs to let the truth come out; after all, if Gino loved me, he ought to understand me and forgive me. My determination must have convinced Astarita that a second attempt at blackmail would certainly be useless.
When I threatened to call for help, he said nothing, but, dragging his hat along the table, he went off toward the door. When he had reached the end of the table, he stopped and lowered his head, looking as though he were pulling himself together in order to speak to me. But when he raised his head once more and moved his lips, his courage seemed to fail him and he remained silent, staring at me. This second gaze seemed endless. Then with a nod he left me, shutting the door behind him.
I immediately went out to Mother in the kitchen.
“What did you tell that man?” I asked furiously.
“Nothing!” she replied in a fright. “He asked me what work we did; he told me he wanted me to make him some shirts.”
“If you work for him I’ll kill you!” I cried.
She looked at me in terror. “Who says I’m going to work for him? He can get someone else to make his shirts!” she replied.
“Didn’t he speak about me?”
“He asked me when you were getting married.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said you were getting married in October.”
“He didn’t give you any money?”
“No, why?” She looked at me, feigning astonishment. “Should he have?”
I was sure from the tone of her voice that Astarita had given her money. I ran to her and seized her violently by the arm. “Tell me the truth … did he give you money?”
“No, he didn’t give me anything.”
Her hand was in her apron pocket. I seized her wrist violently and a banknote folded in two fell out of her open hand. Although I still had hold of her, she bent down and pick
ed it up so greedily and so possessively that my fury subsided all at once. I remembered the agitation and delight Astarita’s money had caused me the day we went to Viterbo, and I felt I had no right to condemn Mother because she had the same feelings and yielded to the same temptation. Now I wished I had not questioned her, had not seen the banknote. I contented myself with saying in a normal tone, “You see, he did give you something.” And without waiting for her explanation, I left the kitchen. From some hints she let fall at dinner, I understood that she wanted to begin to talk again about Astarita and the money, but I changed the subject and she did not insist.
Next day Gisella came without Riccardo to the pastry shop where we used to meet.
“I have something very important to tell you today,” she said without any preliminaries as soon as she sat down.
A kind of presentiment made me grow pale. “If it’s bad news, please don’t tell me,” I said faintly.
“It’s neither good nor bad,” she said eagerly. “It’s just a piece of news, that’s all. I’ve already told you who Astarita is —”
“I don’t want to hear anything about Astarita —”
“Now listen! Don’t be such a child! Astarita’s a very important person, as I told you before, one of the high-ups. He’s a big shot in the political police.”
I felt a little reassured, since after all I had nothing to do with politics. “It doesn’t matter to me what Astarita is, even if he’s a minister.”
“Oh, you’re so —” exclaimed Gisella. “Just listen, instead of butting in all the time. Astarita told me you simply must go to see him at the Ministry. He’s got to talk to you — not about love,” she added hurriedly, seeing I was about to protest. “He’s got to tell you something very important — something that concerns you.”
“Something that concerns me?”
“Yes. Something for your own good. At least, that’s what he said.”
The Woman of Rome (Italia) Page 11
