The Woman of Rome (Italia)

by Alberto Moravia

  I knew Giacomo’s address and it took me twenty minutes to reach his house. But just as I was about to enter the main door I remembered I had not warned him I was coming, and I suddenly felt shy. I was afraid he might be annoyed at seeing me or even send me away. My impatient step slowed down, and I stopped outside a shop, with my heart full of sadness, wondering whether it would not be better to turn back and wait for him to make up his mind to call on me. I realized that at the beginning of our relationship, in particular, I ought to be very wary and subtle and never let him know that I was in love with him and could not live without him. On the other hand, turning back seemed very bitter to me, since I was uneasy on account of the confession and I needed to see him, if only to take my mind off my worries. My eye fell on the window of the shop in front of me. It was full of shirts and ties and I suddenly remembered I had promised to buy him a new tie to replace his threadbare one. When people are in love, their minds never work properly; I told myself I could make the gift of a tie an excuse for my visit, without realizing that the gift itself would emphasize the submissive, anxious nature of my feeling toward him. I went into the shop and after spending a long time over my choice I bought a gray tie with red stripes, the handsomest and most expensive of them all. The man behind the counter asked me, with the somewhat indiscreet courtesy of salesmen who think they can influence their customers in their choice, whether the tie was for a fair or a dark man. “He’s dark,” I replied slowly and, realizing I had pronounced the word “dark” in a caressing tone, I blushed at the thought that the salesman might have noticed it.

  The widow Medolaghi lived on the fourth floor of a gloomy old palace whose windows looked out onto the Tiber embankment. I walked up eight flights of stairs and rang the bell of a door hidden in the shadows, without even waiting to recover my breath. The door opened almost immediately and Giacomo appeared on the threshold. “Oh, it’s you!” he exclaimed in surprise. He was obviously expecting someone.

  “May I come in?”

  “Yes … yes.… Come this way.”

  He led me from the dim hall into the sitting room. It was dark here, too, because the windows had little, round, red, leaded panes, like ones in a church. I glimpsed a quantity of black furniture inlaid with mother-of-pearl. A round table with a blue crystal decanter of an old-fashioned shape stood in the middle. There were many carpets and a very worn white bearskin. Everything was old, but clean and neat and as if preserved within the deep silence that had apparently reigned in the house since time immemorial. I went and sat down on a sofa at the other end of the room.

  “Were you expecting anybody?” I asked.

  “No. But why have you come?” The words were not actually very welcoming. But he did not seem angry, only surprised.

  “I’ve just come to say hello,” I smiled. “Because I think this will be the last time we’ll see one another.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m positive that tomorrow at the latest they’ll come for me and take me to jail.”

  “To jail? What the devil do you mean?”

  His voice and expression changed and I realized that he was afraid on his own account; perhaps he thought I had denounced him or compromised him in some way by talking to someone about his political activities. “Don’t worry,” I smiled again. “It’s nothing to do with you, not even remotely.”

  “No, no,” he replied hurriedly, “but I can’t understand, that’s all. Why should you go to jail?”

  “Shut the door and sit down here,” I said, pointing to the sofa beside me.

  He shut the door and then sat down beside me. Then I told him the whole story of the compact, very calmly, including my confession. He listened with his head bowed, without looking at me, biting his nails, which was always a sign that he was interested. “So I’m sure that that priest will play a dirty trick on me. What do you think?” I concluded.

  He shook his head and spoke, not looking at me but at the leaded panes in the windows. “He shouldn’t, in fact, I don’t think he will. It’s not enough for a priest to be ugly.…”

  “But you should have seen him!” I interrupted eagerly.

  “He’d have to be monstrous to do such a thing! But, of course, anything can happen,” he added hurriedly, with a laugh.

  “So you think I shouldn’t be afraid.”

  “Yes. All the more so, since you can’t do anything — it doesn’t depend on you.”

  “That’s a nice way to talk! People feel afraid because they’re afraid! It’s stronger than us.”

  He suddenly made a fond gesture typical of him. He put one hand on my neck and laughed as he gave it a little shake. “You aren’t afraid, though, are you?” he said.

  “But I tell you I am!”

  “You aren’t afraid, you’re a brave woman!”

  “I tell you I was terrified! I even went to bed and didn’t get up for two days.”

  “Yes, but then you came to see me and tell me everything with the utmost composure. You don’t know what it is to be afraid.”

  “What should I have done?” I asked, smiling despite myself. “I can’t exactly scream for fear!”

  “You aren’t afraid.”

  A moment’s silence followed. Then he asked me in an odd tone of voice that surprised me, “What about this friend of yours — let’s call him your friend — Sonzogno? What sort of a man is he?”

  “Like a lot of others,” I answered vaguely. I could not think of anything in particular to say about Sonzogno at that moment.

  “But what’s he like? Describe him.”

  “Why? Do you want to have him arrested?” I asked, laughing. “If you do, I’ll be put into jail, too, remember! He’s a little blond.” I added, “short, broad-shouldered, with a pale face, blue eyes, nothing special, in fact. The only outstanding thing about him is that he’s terrifically strong.”

  “Strong?”

  “You wouldn’t think it to look at him. But if you touch his arm, it’s like iron.” Seeing that he was interested, I told him the story of the incident between Sonzogno and Gino. He made no comment, but asked when I had finished, “So you think Sonzogno’s crime was premeditated? I mean — that he thought it all out and then did it in cold blood?”

  “Not at all,” I answered. “He never plans anything. A moment before laying out Gino flat on the ground with that punch, he probably wasn’t even dreaming of such a thing … and the same with the jeweler.”

  “Then why did he do it?”

  “Because … Because it’s stronger than he is — like a tiger. One moment it’s calm, the next it hits out at you with its paw, and no one knows why.” Then I told him the whole story of my relationship with Sonzogno, how he had struck me and threatened to murder me in the dark. “He never thinks,” I concluded. “At a certain moment a force stronger than his will takes hold of him — it’s best to keep your distance at such times. I’m sure he went to the jeweler’s to sell him the compact, then the jeweler insulted him, and he murdered him.”

  “He’s kind of a brute, then.”

  “Call him what you like. It must be an impulse,” I added, trying to define in my own mind the feeling Sonzogno’s homicidal mania inspired in me, “like the one that drives me to love you. Why do I love you? God only knows. Why does Sonzogno at certain moments feel an impulse to murder? God only knows this, too. I don’t think there’s any explanation for these things.”

  He reflected. Then he raised his head. “And what sort of impulse do you think I feel toward you?” he asked. “Do you think I feel the impulse to love you?”

  I was terrified that I might hear him say he did not love me. So I covered his mouth with my hand. “Please,” I begged him, “don’t tell me anything about what you feel for me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t need to know.… I don’t know what you feel for me and don’t want to know.… It’s enough for me to love you, myself.”

  He shook his head. “It’s a bad thing for you to love me,” he sai
d. “You ought to love a man like Sonzogno.”

  I was really amazed. “What are you saying? A criminal?”

  “Suppose he is a criminal? Still, he has the impulses you mentioned. Just as Sonzogno has the impulse to kill, I’m sure he’d have the impulse to love, quite simply, without any complication. But I on the other hand —”

  I did not let him continue. “You can’t compare yourself with Sonzogno,” I protested. “You are what you are. He’s a criminal, a monster. And anyway, it isn’t true that he might have the impulse to love — a man like that can’t love. It’s nothing more than a satisfaction of the senses for him.… It’s all the same to him whether it’s me or any other woman.”

  He did not seem convinced, but he said nothing. I took advantage of his silence and slipped my fingers under his cuff, along his wrist, trying to reach up his arm. “Mino,” I said.

  I saw him start. “Why are you calling me Mino?”

  “It’s short for Giacomo. Can’t I?”

  “No, no, it doesn’t matter, of course you can. Only it’s what they call me at home, that’s all.”

  “Is that what your mother calls you?” I asked, letting go of his wrist and slipping my hand under his tie, stroking his bare chest between the edges of his shirt with my fingertips.

  “Yes, it’s what my mother calls me,” he said impatiently. “It’s not the only thing you say that my mother says too,” he continued after a moment, in a voice that was partly sarcastic and partly scornful. “Basically, you share the same opinions about everything.”

  “What, for instance?” I asked. I was excited and hardly heard what he was saying. I had unbuttoned his shirt and was trying to reach his thin and graceful boyish shoulder with my hand.

  “This, for instance,” he replied. “When I told you I was involved with politics, you immediately exclaimed in a frightened voice, ‘But it’s illegal! It’s dangerous!’ Well, that’s exactly what my mother would have said, in the exact same tone of voice.”

  I was flattered by the idea that I resembled his mother, first of all because she was his mother and then because I knew she was a lady. “Silly boy!” I said tenderly. “What’s the harm in that? It means your mother loves you as I do. It’s very true that it’s dangerous to have anything to do with politics. A young man I knew was arrested and he’s been in jail two years now. And for what? They’re stronger, anyway, and as soon as you do anything they put you in prison.… I think it’s possible to live very well without politics.”

  “My mother, my mother!” he exclaimed, jubilant and sarcastic. “That’s exactly what my mother would say.”

  “I don’t know what your mother says,” I replied, “but I’m sure that whatever it is, it’s for your own good. You ought to leave politics alone. It’s not like it’s your profession. You’re a student. A student’s job is to study.”

  “Study, get a degree, and make a position for yourself,” he murmured, as if speaking to himself.

  I did not answer, but putting my face up to his I offered him my lips. We kissed and then drew apart. He seemed sorry he had kissed me and looked at me with a hostile and mortified expression. I was afraid I had annoyed him by interrupting his political outburst with my kiss. “But anyway,” I added hastily, “do what you like. I’ve nothing to do with your affairs. As a matter of fact, since I’m here you might as well give me that parcel, and I’ll hide it for you, as we arranged.”

  “No, no,” he replied with intensity, “Good God, it wouldn’t work now — not with your friendship with Astarita — suppose he found out!”

  “Why? Is Astarita so dangerous?”

  “He’s one of the worst,” he replied earnestly.

  I felt an inexplicable, mischievous impulse to wound him in his pride. But not spitefully, affectionately. “As a matter of fact.” I said gently, “you never really meant to give me that parcel.”

  “Then why did I mention it to you?”

  “Because — well, don’t be offended, now — I think you mentioned it to look good to me — to show me you really did dangerous, illegal things.”

  He grew irritated and I realized I had struck home. “What nonsense!” he said. “You really are stupid. But what makes you think so?” he asked awkwardly, suddenly calm once more.

  “I don’t know,” I answered with a smile. “It’s your whole way of doing things. Perhaps you aren’t aware of it, but you never give the impression that you’re serious about what you do.”

  He made a burlesque-like gesture, as if revolting against himself. “And yet it’s an extremely serious matter,” he said. He stood up and, stretching out his thin arms, began to recite emphatically in a falsetto voice:

  “My sword, give me my sword!

  I alone will fight, alone will fall.”

  He was so funny, waving his arms and legs about, he looked rather like a marionette.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he replied. “It’s a line out of a poem.” His excitement suddenly gave way to a strangely depressed and reflective mood. He sat down again and continued earnestly, “And yet, look, I’m so much in earnest about everything I do that I actually hope I’ll be arrested … and then I’ll show everyone whether I’m serious or not.”

  I said nothing, but took his face between the palms of my hands and began to stroke it. “Your eyes are so beautiful,” I said. It was true, his eyes were exceptionally beautiful, large and gentle, with an intense and innocent expression. He became disturbed again, his chin began to tremble. “Why don’t we go into your bedroom?” I murmured.

  “Don’t even think about it — it’s next to the widow’s room — and she’s there the whole day long, with the door open, watching the passage.”

  “Let’s go home to my place then.”

  “It’s too late.… You live too far away. I’m expecting some friends before long.”

  “Here, then.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “You’re scared, you mean,” I insisted. “You aren’t afraid to go in for political propaganda — at least, that’s what you say — but you’re afraid of being caught in this sitting room with the woman who loves you. What could happen, anyway? The widow might send you away, and then you’d have to find another room.”

  I knew that if I made it a matter of pride, I could get anything out of him. And indeed he seemed to be persuaded. Actually, his desire must have been at least as strong as mine. “You’re crazy,” he repeated. “It might be more of a bother to be sent away from here than to be arrested. Besides, where can we lie?”

  “On the floor,” I said, softly and with intense affection. “Come on — I’ll show you how to do it.” He now seemed to be in such a state that he could not speak. I got up from the sofa and slowly lay down on the floor. The floor was covered with rugs and in the middle of the room stood the table with the carafe. I stretched myself out on the rugs, my head and breasts under the table; then I pulled Mino down by one arm, forcing him to lie reluctantly on top of me. I threw my head back, shutting my eyes, and the ancient smell of dust and fluff in the carpet seemed as sweet and intoxicating as if I were lying in a field in springtime and the smell was the scent of flowers and grass, not dirty wool. Mino lay on me and his weight made me feel the delightful hardness of the floor, and I was happy because he did not feel it and my body was his bed. Then I felt him kissing my neck and my cheeks and I was filled with a great joy, because he never did this. I opened my eyes; my face was turned toward my shoulder, one cheek against the rough wool of the carpet, and I could see, beyond the carpet, a wide stretch of wax-polished mosaic and the lower part of the double folding doors beyond that. I heaved a deep sigh and closed my eyes again.

  Mino was the first to get back up. I stayed for a long moment as he had left me, flat on my back with one arm over my face, my dress disordered, my legs apart. I felt happy, and blank in my happiness, and I thought I could have stayed there for hours, with the pleasant hardness of the floor under me, and the smel
l of dust and fluff in my nostrils. Perhaps I even dropped off into a light, rapid sleep for a second, for I seemed to be dreaming that I really was in a flowery meadow, stretched out on the grass with the sunny sky over me instead of the table. Mino must have thought I was feeling ill, because I suddenly felt him shake me. “What’s the matter?” he said under his breath. “What are you doing? Get up, quick!”

  With an effort I removed my arm from my face, slowly came out from under the table and stood up. I felt happy and I was smiling. Mino looked at me in silence, his back against the sideboard, bent over and still panting, his expression hostile and bewildered. “I never want to see you again,” he said at last. At the same time his bowed body gave a strange, involuntary shudder as though he were a puppet and a spring had suddenly gone in him.

  I smiled. “Why?” I said. “We love one another — we’ll see each other again.” And going up to him, I caressed him. But he turned his white, contorted face away from me.

  “I never want to see you again,” he repeated.

  I knew his hostility was chiefly due to his remorse at having yielded to me. He never resigned himself to making love to me without a feeling of reluctance and deep regret. He was like a man who decides to do something he does not want to do and knows he ought not to do. But I was sure his bad mood would be short-lived and that his desire for me, however he might struggle against it and hate it, would always be stronger in the end than his singular longing for chastity. So I took no notice of his words, and, remembering the tie I had bought for him, I went over to the shelf where I had put my gloves and purse.

  “Come on, now,” I said. “Don’t be so angry! I won’t come here again. Will that do?”

  He made no reply. At that moment the door was flung open and an elderly parlormaid showed two men into the room. “Hello, Giacomo,” said the first, in a deep, thick voice.