The Woman of Rome (Italia)

by Alberto Moravia

  “What’ll you do?” she asked anxiously. “I can’t keep you — you’re not a child and you need a lot — and then there’s so much to buy — your trousseau.…” She began to wail and moan.

  “Don’t bother me now,” I said, slowly and wearily, without removing my arm from my face. “Don’t worry, there’ll always be enough money.”

  A lengthy silence followed. “Don’t you want anything?” she asked at last, humiliated and anxious, like a maid who has been reprimanded for being too familiar and is hoping to be forgiven.

  “Yes, please. Help me to undress. I’m so tired and I’m still so sleepy.”

  She obeyed and sitting on the bed took off my shoes and stockings, which she placed tidily on a chair at the foot of the bed. Then she took off my dress and helped me slip into my nightgown. I kept my eyes shut all the time, and as soon as I was under the covers, I curled up and hid my head in the sheet. Mother wished me good-night from the doorway when she had switched off the light, but I did not reply. I fell asleep again at once and slept all night, well into the morning.

  Next morning I should have gone to my usual appointment with Gino, but when I woke up I realized I did not want to see him until the pain has passed and I was able to consider his treachery objectively, from a distance, like something that had happened to someone else, not to myself. Then, as always, I mistrusted things said and done under the stress of emotion, especially when the emotion as in my case, was not one of liking and affection. Certainly I did not love Gino any longer, but I did not want to hate him, exactly, because I thought that in doing so I would only burden my soul with a painful emotion, unworthy of me; and this in addition to the harm he had already done me through his betrayal.

  In any case, I felt a kind of sensuous laziness that morning and was less unhappy than I had been the evening before. Mother had gone out early, and I knew she would not come back before midday. So I lingered in bed, and this was my first pleasure at the beginning of a new phase in my life from which I wished nothing but pleasure. Every day since childhood, I had got up in the early hours, and lying idly in bed without doing anything was a real luxury for me. I had never indulged myself, but now I made up my mind to lie in bed whenever I felt like it, and I planned to act in the same way about all the things I had rejected, up until now, on the grounds of my poverty and my dreams of a respectable family life. I thought how I enjoyed lovemaking and money and the things money can provide, and I told myself that, from now on, I would never refuse love or money or what money could bring, if I had the chance. Do not imagine that I thought these things heatedly, in resentment and a spirit of revenge. I was quite dispassionate as I lay there caressing the idea and enjoying it in anticipation. Every situation, no matter how unpleasant, has its reverse side. For the moment, I had lost marriage and all the modest advantages I had contemplated, but in return I had regained my freedom. My deepest hopes remained unchanged, certainly; but still, the easy life attracted me very much and its glittering prospect concealed from me all the sadness and resignation that lay behind my new resolve. Gisella’s and Mother’s sermons began to bear fruit. The whole time, although I had been living a virtuous life, I had known that my beauty was such as to be able to earn me anything I wanted, if I would only make up my mind. That morning was the first time I considered my body as a very convenient means for achieving the aims that hard work and honesty had not enabled me to attain.

  These thoughts, or rather daydreams, made the morning pass like lightning, and I was astonished when I heard the church bells next door chiming midday and saw that a long ray of sunshine had come through the window and lay across the bed. The bells and the ray of sunshine, like my idleness that morning, seemed unusual, precious luxuries. The rich ladies who lived in villas, like Gino’s mistress, must lie in their beds dreaming in just the same way at that very same moment, hearing the chimes and watching the ray of sunshine with astonished eyes. With a feeling that I was no longer the same busy, impoverished Adriana of yesterday, but quite a different being, I got out of bed at last and took off my nightgown in front of the closet mirror. I looked at myself naked in the mirror, and for the first time understood my mother’s pride when she said to the artist, “Look at her breasts! Her legs — her hips.” I thought of Astarita whose whole character, even his manner and voice, was changed by his desire for my breasts, my legs, my hips, and I told myself I would certainly find other men who would give me as much money and even more than he did, if they could have pleasure from me.

  In my new character, I dressed lazily, drank some coffee, and went out. I went to a nearby bar and phoned Gino’s villa. He had given me the number, telling me, with characteristic servility, to use it very sparingly because his employers did not like the phone to be used by the servants. I spoke first of all to a woman who must have been the parlormaid, and then Gino came almost immediately. He asked me at once whether I was feeling ill and I could not help smiling, since I recognized in his anxiety his old perfection of manner, which was perhaps not entirely assumed, and had done so much to deceive me. “I’m perfectly well,” I replied. “I’ve never been so well in my life.”

  “When can I see you?”

  “Whenever you want,” I said, “but I’d like it to be like the first time — at the villa when your employers are away.”

  He realized what I meant at once. “They’re going away in about ten days’ time, for Christmas,” he replied eagerly, “not earlier.”

  “All right, then,” I replied carelessly, “I’ll see you in ten days’ time.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked in amazement.

  “Before then, I’m busy.”

  “What’s the matter?” he asked suspiciously. “Are you mad at me?”

  “No,” I replied. “If I were mad at you, I wouldn’t want to see you at the villa, would I?” It had occurred to me that he might become jealous and pester me. So I added, “Don’t be alarmed — I love you as I always did. Only I’ve got to help Mother with some extra work because of the holidays — and since I won’t be able to get away from home until late and you’re never free late at night, I’d rather wait until your employers go away.”

  “But what about the morning?”

  “I’ll be sleeping in the morning,” I answered. “By the way — did you know I’m not a model anymore?”

  “Why?”

  “I got tired of it — you’re glad, aren’t you? I’ll see you in ten days’ time, then. I’ll call you.”

  “All right.”

  He said “all right” without much conviction. But I knew him well enough to be sure that despite his suspicions he would not turn up before the ten days had passed. Rather, just because he was suspicious he would not turn up. The idea that I might have discovered his treachery must have filled him with terror and dismay. I hung up the receiver and realized I had spoken to Gino in a calm, good-natured, and even affectionate voice, and I congratulated myself. By and by my feelings for him would also become calm, good-natured, and affectionate, and I would be able to see him without any fear of plunging him, myself, and our relationship into the false and trying atmosphere of hatred.

  7

  IN THE AFTERNOON OF THAT very day, I went straight off to see Gisella in her furnished room. As was usual with her at that hour, she had only that moment got out of her bed, and was dressing for her date with Riccardo. I sat down on the unmade bed and, while she wandered about in the semidarkness of the untidy room full of clothes and knickknacks, I told her in the most matter-of-fact tone of voice how I had gone to call on Astarita and how he had told me that Gino had a wife and child. On hearing this news, Gisella exploded into an exclamation, I don’t know whether of joy or surprise, came to sit on the bed facing me and, putting her two hands on my shoulders, gazed into my eyes.

  “No, no — I can’t believe it — a wife and daughter! Is it really true?”

  “The daughter’s called Maria.”

  Obviously she wanted to get to the bottom of the story and
discuss it as fully as possible, and my peaceful attitude disappointed her.

  “A wife and daughter — and the daughter’s called Maria — can you talk about it like that?”

  “How should I talk about it?”

  “Aren’t you upset?”

  “Of course I’m upset.”

  “But how did he break the news? Did he say, ‘Gino Molinari’s got a wife and daughter,’ just like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. What could I say?”

  “But how did you feel? Didn’t you burst into tears? After all, it’s a disaster for you.”

  “No, it didn’t occur to me to cry.”

  “Well, now you can’t marry Gino,” she exclaimed cheerfully after a moment’s thought. “What a business, all the same! That man’s got no conscience — a poor girl like you, who lived only for him, as you might say. Men are all scoundrels.”

  “Gino doesn’t know yet that I know everything,” I said.

  “In your place, honey,” she said eagerly, “I’d tell him what I think of him — and no one could keep me from slapping him a time or two.”

  “I’ve got a date with him in ten days,” I answered. “I think we’ll go on making love.”

  She drew back, staring straight at me. “But why? … Do you still like him! — after what he’s done to you?”

  “No,” I answered, and I could not help lowering my voice, “I don’t like him so much, but —” I hesitated, and then lied in a strained way “— slaps and shrieks aren’t always the best way of getting even.”

  She looked at me a moment with half-shut eyes, standing back as painters do while scrutinizing their pictures.

  “You’re right —” she exclaimed. “I hadn’t thought of that — but do you know what I’d do in your place? I’d let him stew in his own juice, calmly, sure of himself — and then one fine day — pow! — I’d ditch him.”

  I didn’t say anything. She continued after a moment, in a less excited voice but just as lively and expressive. “Still, I can hardly believe it — a wife and daughter — and he was so finicky about you! And he made you buy all that furniture and make a trousseau. It’s a mess, a real mess!”

  I remained silent. “But I knew all along!” she cried triumphantly. “I saw through him. You must admit that. What did I tell you? He doesn’t mean what he says. Poor Adriana!” She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me. I let her kiss me.

  “Yes, but the worst of it is, he’s made Mother spend her money,” I then said.

  “Does your mother know?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Don’t be worried about the cash,” she cried. “Astarita is so much in love with you — you only need to make up your mind and he’ll give you all the money you want.”

  “I don’t want to see anything more of Astarita,” I answered. “Any man but Astarita.”

  I must say Gisella was no fool. She realized immediately that for the moment it was better not to mention Astarita, and she also knew what I meant by the phrase “any other man but Astarita.” She pretended to think for a while.

  “You’re right, actually,” Then she continued, “I see what you mean. I’d feel somewhat strange myself if I went out with Astarita after what happened — he wants things at all costs — and he told you about Gino to get even.” She was silent again. “Leave it to me,” she went on seriously. “Do you want to meet someone who will help you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Leave it to me.”

  “But,” I added, “I don’t want to be tied up with anyone; I want to be free.”

  “Leave it to me,” she repeated for the third time.

  “Now I want to give Mother her money back,” I continued, “and buy some things I need. And I don’t want Mother to have to work anymore,”-I added.

  Meanwhile, Gisella had got up and had seated herself at the dressing table. “You’ve always been too good, Adriana,” she said as she hastily dabbed on some powder. “Now can you see what happens to people who are too good?”

  “Did you know I didn’t go to pose this morning?” I said. “I’ve made up my mind to give up being a model.”

  “You’re right,” she replied. “I only pose myself for —” and she named a certain artist — “just to do him a favor. But when he’s finished, I’m through with it.”

  I felt very fond of Gisella, at that moment, and thoroughly comforted. The sound of her saying “Leave it to me” was reassuring, like a cordial and maternal promise to attend to my needs as soon as possible. I realized, of course, that Gisella was not inspired to help me by any affection she had for me, but rather by the almost unconscious desire, as in the Astarita affair, to see me reduced as quickly as possible to her own level. But no one ever does anything for nothing and, since in this case Gisella’s envy coincided with my own convenience, I saw no reason to turn down her help merely because I knew it was given from selfish motives.

  She was in a great hurry because she was already late for her date with her fiancé. We left the room and began to descend the steep, narrow staircase of the old house.

  “You know, I’m beginning to think Riccardo wants to play me the same trick as Gino played you,” she said on the way down, spurred on by her state of excitement and perhaps by the desire to soften the bitterness of my disillusionment, by showing me I was not the only unfortunate one.

  “Is he married, too?” I asked innocently.

  “No, but he tells me such stories — I think he’s playing me for a fool. But I told him straight out, ‘Look here, my dear, I don’t need you, you can stay if you want, if not, clear out!’ ”

  I said nothing, but I did not think there was much similarity between us or between my relationship with Gino and hers with Riccardo. In her heart, she had never had any illusions about Riccardo’s intentions, and had not thought twice on occasion, as I well knew, about betraying him. I, on the contrary, had placed all the hopes of my inexpert heart on becoming Gino’s wife and had always been faithful to him; certainly the favor Astarita had obliged me to do him at Viterbo by his blackmail could not really be called infidelity. But I thought she would probably be offended if I said this to her, so I did not speak. At the outer door she arranged to meet me on the following evening at a pastry shop, warning me to be punctual because she would probably have someone with her. Then she ran off.

  I realized I ought to tell Mother what had happened but I did not dare. Mother really loved me; and being the opposite of Gisella, who saw in Gino’s treachery only the triumph of her own theories and did not even try to conceal from me her cruel delight, Mother would feel more sorrow than joy at seeing how right she had been in the end. At heart she desired only my happiness and did not care how I achieved it; only she was sure Gino would not be able to give it to me. After much hesitation, I decided not to tell her anything. I knew that the following evening, deeds, not words, would open her eyes; and although I realized it was a brutal way of showing her the great change that had come about in my life, I liked the idea that by so doing I would avoid the many explanations, reflections, and comments Gisella had poured out so generously when I had told her the tale of Gino’s deceit. To tell the truth, I felt a kind of disgust now for the whole institution of marriage and wanted to talk about it as little as possible and make others avoid the subject too.

  The following day I pretended to have an appointment with Gino and stayed out all afternoon so that Mother, who was already suspicious, would not pester me all the time. I had had something new made for the wedding, a gray suitdress, which I had intended to wear immediately after the ceremony. It was my best dress and I hesitated a long time before putting it on. But then I thought that one day or another I would be obliged to wear it, and it would not be on any purer or happier day than today, and that, on the other hand, men judge by appearances and it would suit my purposes better to show myself at my best; and I laid my scruples aside. And so I put on, not without certain misgivings, my
best dress that today, when I think of it, seems very plain and simple like all my clothes at the time, did my hair carefully, and painted my face, but no more than usual. And while on this subject, I must say that I have never understood why so many women in my profession plaster their faces so thickly and then go on the street looking as if they were wearing carnival masks. Perhaps it is because, with the life they lead, they would otherwise look too pale; or perhaps because they are afraid that if they did not paint themselves so crudely, they would not attract men’s attention and so be able to show them that they are approachable. However tired I may be and however much I overdo it, I never lose my healthy, bronzed look, and I can say, without blushing, that my looks, without the aid of too much make-up, have always been enough to make men turn their heads to stare at me when I pass down the street. I don’t attract men by using lipstick or mascara or peroxiding my hair, but by my majestic bearing (at least, that’s what lots of them have told me), the sweet serenity of my expression, my perfect teeth when I laugh, and the girlish mass of my dark, wavy hair. Women who dye their hair and paint their faces probably do not realize that men, judging them for what they are from the very outset, feel a kind of disillusionment in anticipation. But I, being so natural and restrained, have always left them in doubt about my real character, and in this way have given them an illusion of adventure that, in the end, is what they want far more than the mere satisfaction of their senses.

  When I was dressed and made up, I went to a movie and saw the same film through twice. I left the movie when night had fallen and went straight to the pastry shop where I had the appointment with Gisella. It was not one of the ordinary cheap places where we used to meet Riccardo on other occasions; it was an elegant place and I had never been there before. I realized that the choice of this place was meant specifically to provide a background worthy of me and to raise the price of my favors. Such attention to these and other details, which I will mention later, can lead a woman of my kind, if she is young and beautiful and knows how to use these gifts intelligently, to a steady, comfortable position in life, which is what we all aim at in our hearts. But not many do it; and I was never one of them who did. My humble origin has always made me look suspiciously at luxury. I have always felt ill at ease in restaurants, tearooms, and bourgeois cafés, ashamed to smile or make eyes at the men, as if, in all those glittering lights, I were running the gauntlet. I have always felt a deep and warm attraction for the city streets, with their palaces, churches, monuments, shops, and doorways, which make them more beautiful and welcoming than any restaurant or tearoom. It has always been a favorite habit of mine to go down into the street about the time of sunset and walk slowly along beside the lighted shop windows to watch the twilight gradually darken the sky above the roofs; I have always liked to wander among the crowds and to listen without turning around to the amorous suggestions that the most unexpected passersby, in a sudden exaltation of the senses, risk whispering on the spur of the moment.