The Woman of Rome (Italia)

by Alberto Moravia

  “Yes,” she replied, “but everything cost less in those days — that bag, for instance — you’d have got it for thirty lira then.”

  We passed on from the leather shop to the jeweler’s. Mother stopped to look at the jewelry. “Look!” she exclaimed ecstatically, “just look at that ring! Heaven knows what it would cost — and that heavy gold bracelet! I’m not keen on rings and bracelets myself — but I do like a nice necklace. I had a coral necklace once — but then I had to sell it.”

  “When?”

  “Oh, years ago now.”

  I do not know why, but I was reminded that so far, with all my professional earnings, I had never yet been able to buy myself even the simplest ring. “You know,” I said to Mother, “I’ve made up my mind not to bring men home anymore. It’s over.”

  This was the first time I had mentioned my profession to Mother in so many words. She had a look on her face that I failed to understand at the time. “I’ve told you time and again,” she said, “do what you like. If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

  But she did not seem happy. “We’ll have to take up the life we were living before.… You’ll have to start cutting out and sewing shirts again,” I continued.

  “I did it for years,” she said.

  “We won’t have so much money as we have now,” I insisted rather cruelly. “We’ve been spoiled lately.… I don’t know what I’ll do myself.”

  “What do you think you’ll do?” Mother asked hopefully.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “Be a model, perhaps — or help you with your work.”

  “What help will you be to me!” she said discouragingly.

  “Or else,” I went on, “I can be a maid — what is there to do?”

  Mother’s face now looked sad and bitter, as if she had in a moment shed the accumulated fat of recent times, as trees shed their dead leaves at the first chill of autumn. “You must do what you want,” she repeated, but this time with conviction. “As long as you’re happy, that’s all I say.”

  I realized that two opposing passions were struggling within her: her love for me and her attachment to an easy way of life. I was sorry for her and I would have preferred her to have had the courage to give up one or the other of these two emotions for good and all, and either be all love or all calculation. But this happens very rarely and we spend our lives canceling the effects of our virtues with those of our vices. “I wasn’t happy before,” I said, “and I won’t be happy now — only I can’t go on anymore that way.”

  After this we said nothing more. Mother’s face was all gray and collapsed, and her old drawn look of thinness seemed to become visible once more beneath her current florid appearance. She looked at the shop windows just as zealously and with as much concentration as before; but mechanically now, with no delight or curiosity, as if her mind were engrossed with something else. Perhaps her eyes were unseeing even while she gazed; or rather, she saw not the goods exposed in the windows, but her sewing machine with its tireless treadle, the needle thrusting madly up and down, the heaps of unfinished shirts lying on the table, and the black cloth she used to wrap around the completed work before taking it across town to her clients. But there were no such visions between my eyes and the shop windows. I saw them perfectly and my thoughts were crystal clear. I could make out all the objects behind the glass windows, with their price tags, one by one. I told myself I might not want to continue in my profession, did not want to, in fact, but there was actually nothing else I could do. I might now, within certain limits, have purchased most of the objects I was contemplating, but the very day I returned to being a model or any similar employment, I would have to give those things up forever, and the usual mean, comfortless life of repressed desires, useless sacrifice, and profitless saving would begin all over again for Mother and me. I might even aspire to owning some jewelry now, if I could find someone to give it to me. But if I returned to my old way of life, jewels would be as far out of my reach as the stars in heaven.

  A rush of disgust for the old life, so stupidly harsh and hopeless, overwhelmed me and at the same time I had a vivid sense of the absurdity of my reasons for wishing to change my profession. Just because a student over whom I had lost my head had refused to have anything to do with me! Because I had persuaded myself that he despised me! Because I would have liked to be something different from what I was. I told myself it was only pride and that I could not, out of mere pride, plunge myself, and Mother in particular, back into the old, wretched conditions. I suddenly envisioned Giacomo’s life, which for a brief moment had drawn near to mine and mingled with it, running off in another direction while my own continued along the path I was already treading. If I found someone who loved me and wanted to marry me, I’d change, even if he were poor, I thought, but it wouldn’t be worthwhile for a whim. At this thought, my heart was filled with the sweet calm of liberation. I have often had the same feeling since, not only every time I have not refused what fate seemed to offer me in life, but when I have even gone out to meet it. I was what I was, and I had to be that and nothing else. I might be either a good wife, although this may seem odd, or a woman who sells herself for money, but I could not be a poor woman struggling and scrimping all her life long, with no other aim than the satisfaction of her own pride. Having made peace with myself, I smiled.

  We were standing in front of a women’s clothing shop that displayed silks and woolens. “Look what a lovely scarf!” Mother said. “That’s just what I want.”

  Feeling composed and serene once more, I raised my eyes and looked at the scarf she meant. It really was lovely, in black and white, with a pattern of birds and branches. The shop door was open, with the counter in full view, and on the counter stood a case divided into little sections all filled with similar scarves, heaped untidily together. “Do you like it?” I asked Mother.

  “Yes, why?”

  “You shall have it. But first give me your purse and you take mine.”

  She did not understand and gaped at me. I said nothing but took her large black leather bag and put my smaller one into her hands. I undid the clasp of her bag and keeping it open with my fingers I slowly entered the shop, like someone intending to make a purchase. Mother, who still did not understand but dared not question me, followed me in.

  “We want to see some scarves,” I said to the clerk, as I walked up to the showcase.

  “These are silk, these cashmere, these wool, these cotton —” she said, tumbling the scarves out before me.

  I walked right up to the counter, and holding the purse level with my stomach, I began to examine the scarves with one hand, opening them and holding them up to the light to see the patterns and colors better. There were at least a dozen black-and-white ones, exactly alike. I let one slip onto the edge of the case, with an end hanging over the counter.

  “I really wanted something brighter,” I said to the girl.

  “There’s a better-quality article,” said the clerk, “but it’s more expensive.”

  “Let me see it.”

  She turned to lift down a case from the shelves. I was ready and drawing away from the counter a little, I opened the bag. It only took a moment to pull the scarf down by one end and then press myself up against the counter again.

  Meanwhile the clerk had lifted the case down from the shelf. She put it on the counter and showed me some larger and finer scarves. I examined them at my leisure, commenting on the colors and patterns, and even showing them to Mother with little exclamations of approval that she, having seen everything and looking more dead than alive, answered by nods.

  “How much are they?” I asked at last.

  The clerk told me the price. “You were right,” I said regretfully. “They’re too expensive, for us, anyway — but thanks all the same.”

  We left the shop, and I walked quickly toward a nearby church, since I was afraid the clerk might notice the theft and run after us through the crowd. Mother, hanging on to my arm, looked about her with a suspicio
us and bewildered air, like someone who has been drinking and is none too certain that the things he sees wavering and shifting before his eyes are not drunk, instead. I could not help laughing at her bewilderment. I did not know why I had stolen the scarf; it was not important in itself because I had already stolen the compact from the house of Gino’s employer, and in such matters what counts most is the first step. But the sensual pleasure of the first time came back to me; and I felt I understood now why so many people steal. A few steps brought us to the church on a side street.

  “Shall we go in for a moment?” I asked Mother.

  “If you like,” she answered submissively.

  We entered the little white church, circular in shape, which resembled a dance hall, with its double ring of columns encircling the floor. A dull light poured down from the windows in the dome onto the two rows of pews, polished by use. I raised my eyes and saw that the dome was frescoed all over with figures of angels with outspread wings, and I felt certain that those splendid, handsome angels would protect me, and that the clerk would not notice the theft before evening. The silence, the smell of incense, the shadow and sense of absorbed prayer in the church, all helped to reassure me after the confusion and excessively strong light in the street. I had entered the church hastily, almost knocking into Mother, but I grew calmer at once and my fear subsided. Mother made as if to fumble inside my bag, which she was still holding. I held her own out to her. “Put your scarf on,” I whispered to her.

  She opened the bag and arranged the stolen scarf on her head. We dipped our fingers in the holy-water stoup and went to sit down in the first row of pews facing the high altar. I knelt down and Mother remained seated, her hands in her lap, her face shadowed by the scarf, which was too large for her. I realized she was distressed; and I could not help comparing my own calm with her agitation. I felt in a sweet and conciliatory frame of mind, and although I knew I had done something forbidden by religion, I felt no remorse and was far nearer a religious state than I was when I had done nothing wrong and had worked my fingers to the bone to eke out a living. I remembered the shudder of bewilderment I had experienced a moment earlier while looking at the crowded street, and I was comforted by the idea that there was a God who could see clearly into me and saw there was nothing bad, and that the mere fact of being alive rendered me innocent, as, in fact, all men are. I knew this God was not there to judge and condemn me, but to justify my existence, which could only be good since it descended directly from Him. While I mechanically repeated the words of the prayer, I was looking at the altar, where the dark image in a picture dimly visible behind the candle flames appeared to be the Madonna, and I realized that between the Madonna and myself the question was not whether I should behave in a particular way, but more essentially whether I should feel encouraged to continue living at all. The encouragement I was seeking suddenly seemed to me to be pouring out toward me from the dark figure behind the altar candles, in the form of a sudden sensation of heat that flooded my whole being. Yes, I was encouraged to go on living, although I knew nothing about life or why I was alive.

  Mother sat there, sullen and bewildered. Turning around to look at her, I could not help smiling affectionately at her. “Say a little prayer — it’ll do you good,” I whispered. She shivered, hesitated and then unwillingly knelt down, her hands joined. I knew she did not want to believe any longer in religion; it seemed to her a kind of false consolation whose aim was to make her be good and forget the harshness of life. Nevertheless I saw her lips moving mechanically and the expression of suspicious ill humor on her face made me smile again. I wanted to reassure her, tell her that I had changed my mind and she had nothing to worry about, she would not be obliged to work as she had in the past. There was something ingenuous about Mother’s bad temper; she was like a child when it is refused a sweet it has been promised, and this seemed to be the most important aspect of her behavior to me. Otherwise I might have thought she counted on my profession to enable her to enjoy all her little comforts; and I knew in my heart that this was not true.

  Having said her prayers, she crossed herself angrily and rapidly, as if to show clearly that she had done it only to please me. I got up and motioned to her to come out. On the doorstep she took off the scarf, folded it carefully and replaced it in her bag. We returned to Via Nazionale and I walked toward a pastry shop. “Now, we’re going to have a vermouth,” I said.

  “No! Why should we? We don’t need one,” protested Mother, in a voice that sounded both pleased and apprehensive. She was always like that, afraid from old habit that I would spend too much. “What’ll it cost?” I said. “One vermouth!” She was silent and followed me into the shop.

  It was an old-fashioned place, with a counter and wainscot of polished mahogany and a number of showcases filled with handsome boxes of sweets. We sat down in a corner and I ordered two vermouths. The waiter made Mother feel embarrassed, and while I was ordering she sat there stockstill and awkward, her eyes cast down. When he had brought our drinks she picked up the little glass, sipped the wine, put it down again, then said seriously, “It’s good.”

  The waiter had brought a metal and glass cake stand with some cakes in it. I opened it. “Have one,” I said to Mother.

  “No — please!”

  “Go on — have one!”

  “It’ll spoil my appetite.”

  “One cake!” I looked at the cakes and chose a millefeuilles and gave it to her. “Eat this one,” I said. “It’s not heavy.”

  She took it and ate it in little mouthfuls, remorsefully looking at each bite she had taken. “It’s really good,” she said at last.

  “Have another one,” I said. This time she did not need pressing and accepted another cake. When she had finished the vermouth, we sat on without speaking, watching the customers coming and going in the shop. I could see that Mother was glad to be sitting in a corner with two cakes and a vermouth inside her, that she was interested and amused by the incessant movement of the people, and that she had nothing to say to me. This was probably the first time she had ever been in such a place and the novelty of the experience impeded any thoughts she might have on the subject.

  A young lady entered, holding the hand of a little girl who was wearing a large white fur neckpiece, a short dress and white cotton gloves and stockings. The mother chose a cake from the stand on the counter and gave it to her.

  “When I was a little girl, you never took me into the pastry shops,” I said.

  “How could I have afforded it?” she asked,

  “And now it’s I who take you,” I said in even tones.

  She was silent for a moment, then said sulkily, “Now you’re throwing it in my face because you brought me here — I didn’t want to come.”

  I put my hand on hers. “I’m not throwing anything in your face,” I said. “I’m glad I brought you here. Did grandmother ever take you to pastry shops?”

  She shook her head. “I never went outside our own district until I was eighteen.”

  “You see,” I said, “you need someone in a family who will do certain things for the first time sooner or later. You didn’t do them, nor your mother, nor probably your mother’s mother. So I’m doing them. You can’t go on like that for ever!”

  She did not answer and we stayed there for another quarter of an hour watching the people. Then I opened my purse, took out my cigarette case and lit a cigarette. Women like me often smoke in public places in order to attract men. But I was not thinking of picking anyone up just then. On the contrary, I had decided for that evening at least to have nothing to do with them. I simply wanted to smoke. I put the cigarette to my lips, drew in the smoke, then blew it out of my mouth and nostrils, holding the cigarette between two fingers and watching the people.

  But there must have been something provocative in the gesture, because I immediately noticed someone near the counter about to sip a cup of coffee he held in one hand, who stopped with the cup halfway to his lips and began to stare at me. He
was about forty years old, short, with thick, curly hair, bulging eyes, and a heavy jaw. He was so stocky that he seemed to have no neck. He stood there staring at me, like a bull that has seen a red rag and stands motionless before lowering its head to attack. He was well, though not fashionably, dressed, with a close-fitting overcoat that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders. I lowered my eyes, and for a moment started to consider what there was for and against such a man. I knew his character was such that one glance from me would be enough to make the veins in his neck stand out and his face grow purple, but I was not at all sure that I liked him. Then I realized that the desire to attract him had set my whole body on edge, like hidden sap bursting out of the rugged bark of some tree in a number of tender shoots, forcing me to relinquish my reserved manner. And this was only one hour after I had decided to change my profession. I said to myself that there was nothing to be done about it, it was stronger than I was. But my thoughts were quite cheerful; for since I had left the church I had become reconciled to my fate, whatever it was, and I felt that my acceptance of it was worth more to me than any noble rejection. So after a moment’s consideration, I raised my eyes and looked at him. He was still there, like a wild beast, his cup in his thick, hairy hand, his bovine eyes fixed on me. At that I made up my mind on the moment and threw him a lengthy, caressing glance, with all the skill I could summon. He received it full in the face and grew purple as I had foreseen he would. He sipped his coffee, put the cup down, and strutted in his close-fitting overcoat, with stiff little steps, to the cash desk, and paid. He turned in the doorway and made me a definite, imperious signal of understanding. I looked my acceptance in return.

  “I’m going to leave you now,” I said to Mother. “You stay here, though, in any case we couldn’t go out together.”

  She was enjoying the sights in the pastry shop and started in alarm. “Where are you going? Why?”