The Woman of Rome (Italia)

by Alberto Moravia

“Yes.”

  “Say it, then.”

  “Our Father, which art in Heaven,” I began.

  “That’s enough,” he interrupted. “Now just think for a moment how many ways this prayer has been said over the centuries, with how many different emotions! Well, I don’t understand it at all, not at all. You might as well say it backward, it’d be all the same to me.”

  He was silent for a moment. “It isn’t only words that have this effect on me,” he continued, “but things, too — people. There are you sitting on the arm of this chair beside me, and maybe you think I see you. But I don’t see you because I can’t understand you — I can even touch you and still not understand you. I will touch you, in fact —” as he spoke he jerked aside my dressing gown and uncovered my breast, as if seized by a sudden frenzy. “I’m touching your breast — I can feel its shape, warmth, form, I see its color, its outline … but I don’t understand what it is. I say to myself: here’s a round, warm, soft, white, swelling object, with a little round, dark knob in the middle, which gives milk and gives pleasure if it is caressed. But I don’t understand a thing. I tell myself it’s beautiful, that it ought to fill me with desire, but I still don’t understand a thing. Do you see what I mean, now?” he repeated furiously, grabbing my breast so hard that I could not repress a cry of pain. He let go of me at once. “Probably,” he observed reflectively after a moment, “it’s just this kind of incomprehension that makes so many people cruel. They are trying to rediscover contact with reality through other people’s pain.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then I spoke. “If this is true, how do you manage when you have to do certain things?”

  “What, for instance?”

  “I don’t know — you tell me that you distribute leaflets, and that you write them yourself. But if you don’t believe in them, how can you write them and distribute them?”

  He burst into a fit of sarcastic laughter. “I behave as if I believed in them.”

  “But that’s impossible.”

  “Why impossible? Almost everyone does it, except in the case of eating, drinking, sleeping, and making love. Almost everyone does things as if they believed in them. Hadn’t you noticed that?” He laughed nervously.

  “I don’t,” I replied.

  “You don’t,” he replied, almost insultingly, “exactly because you limit yourself to eating, drinking, sleeping, and making love whenever you feel like it. It isn’t necessary to pretend in these things, it seems — which is a lot. But at the same time, it’s not much.” He laughed, suddenly slapped me hard on the thigh, and then took me into his arms, squeezing me and shaking me as he usually did. “Don’t you know this is the world of ‘as if’?” He began to repeat, “don’t you know that everyone, from the king to the beggar, behaves ‘as if’ — it’s the world of ‘as if, as if, as if’ …”

  I let him have his way because I knew that at such moments it was better not to be offended or to protest, but to wait for him to get it all out. But at last I said firmly, “I love you — that’s the only thing I know and it’s enough for me.”

  “You’re right,” he said simply, suddenly growing calm again. The evening finished in the usual way, without our speaking any further about politics or his incapacity to discuss them.

  When I was alone again, I concluded after much reflection that perhaps things were as he said; but that it was far more likely that he was unwilling to talk to me about politics because he thought I would not understand and also, perhaps, because he was afraid I might compromise him through some indiscretion. Not that I thought he was lying, but I knew from experience that everyone can have a day when the world seems to fall to pieces, or, as he said, when you do not understand a thing, not even the Lord’s Prayer. I, too, when I was ill, or in a bad mood for some reason, had experienced more or less the same sensations of boredom, disgust, and dullness. Evidently there was some other motive behind his refusal to let me share his most secret life; mistrust, as I have said, either of my intelligence or of my discretion. I realized afterward, when it was too late, that I had been mistaken, and that in his case, either through his youthful inexperience or weakness of character, those morbid states of mind assumed a special gravity.

  But at the time I thought it would be wiser to retreat and not disturb him with my curiosity; and I did so.

  8

  I DON’T KNOW WHY, BUT I remember perfectly even the weather we were having at that time. February had come and gone, cold and rainy, and with March began the first milder days. A close network of white gossamer clouds veiled the whole sky and dazzled the eyes as soon as one stepped from the darkness of the house into the street. The air was sweet but still numb from the rigors of winter. I walked along in that thin, anaesthetized, and somnolent light with stupefied pleasure, and every now and again slackened my pace and closed my eyes; or stood still in amazement to gaze at the most insignificant things: a black-and-white cat licking itself on a doorstep, a hanging branch of oleander snapped off by the wind but which perhaps would flower all the same, a tuft of green grass springing up between the slabs of a sidewalk. The moss that the rain of the past months had sprinkled along the base of the houses filled me with a deep sense of peace and trust: I thought that if such lovely emerald velvet could flourish in the sparse soil between the jagged edges of bricks and cobblestones, then my life, whose roots were no deeper than those of moss and which also throve on the most meager nourishment and was really nothing more than a kind of mold growing at the foot of a building, had perhaps some likelihood of continuing and flourishing. I was convinced that all the unpleasant matters of the immediate past were now settled once and for all; that I would never see Sonzogno again or hear his crime mentioned; and that from now on I could peacefully enjoy my relationship with Mino. And with these thoughts, I seemed to taste to the full the real savor of life for the first time, composed as it was of mild boredom, opportunity, and hope.

  I even began to consider the possibility of changing my way of life. My love for Mino made me indifferent toward other men, and so I no longer had even the incentives of curiosity and sensuality in my casual encounters. But I also thought that one way of life was as good as another, and that it was not worthwhile making much of an effort to change. I thought I would do so only if I acquired new habits, affections, and interests and became completely different than what I had been so far, without shocks or interruptions, through force of circumstance and independently of my own will. I saw no other way of changing my life; for the time being I was not at all ambitious for material success and progress, nor did I not think that by changing my way of life I would be able to better myself in any way.

  One day I imparted these ideas to Mino. “I think you’re contradicting yourself, aren’t you?” he said, after listening to me attentively. “Aren’t you always saying you’d like to be rich, have a beautiful house, and a husband and children? These are good things, and you may still have them some day — but you never will if you go on thinking that way.”

  “I didn’t say I’d like them,” I replied, “but that I would have liked them — that is, if I could have chosen before I was born, I certainly wouldn’t have chosen to be what I am. But I was born in this house, with this mother, in these conditions, and after all, I am what I am.”

  “And that is?”

  “That is, it seems absurd to me to long to be someone else. I’d only want to be someone else if I could continue to be myself at the same time; or if I could really enjoy the change, but it isn’t worthwhile turning into a different person just to do it.”

  “It’s always worthwhile,” he said under his breath, “if not for yourself, then for other people.”

  “And then,” I continued, without heeding his interruption, “the facts are what matter most. Do you think I couldn’t have found a rich lover like Gisella? Or even have gotten married? If I haven’t, it means that really, despite all my talk, I didn’t truly want to.”

  “I’ll marry you,” he joked, hugging m
e playfully, “I’m rich.… When my grandmother dies, which won’t be long now, I’ll inherit acres and acres of land, not to mention a villa in the country and an apartment in town. We’ll set up house properly, you’ll receive the ladies of the district on appointed days. We’ll have a cook, a parlormaid, a one-horse carriage or a car. One day we might even, with a little effort, discover that we’re of noble birth and we’ll be called count and countess or marquis and marquise.”

  “It’s impossible to have a serious conversation with you,” I said, pushing him away. “You make a joke of everything.”

  One afternoon I went to the movies with Mino. On our way back we got into a very crowded streetcar. Mino was to come home with me and we were to dine together at the tavern near the walls. He took the tickets and made his way ahead through the crowd that packed the middle of the tram. I tried to keep close to him, but lost sight of him when the crowd lurched forward. While I was standing crushed against one of the seats looking for him, I felt someone touch my hand. I lowered my eyes and there, seated right below me, was Sonzogno.

  I gasped, felt myself grow pale and my expression change. He was staring at me with his usual intolerable intensity. Then, half-rising in his seat, he said to me between clenched teeth, “Do you want to sit down?”

  “Thanks,” I stammered. “I’m getting off soon.”

  “Sit down.”

  “Thanks,” I repeated and sat down. If I had not, I might have fainted.

  He remained standing beside me, as if he were keeping guard over me, holding on to the back of my seat and the one in front with both hands. He had not changed in the least; he was still wearing the same raincoat with a tight belt, his jaw still twitched in the same mechanical way. I closed my eyes and tried for a moment to put my thoughts in order. It was true that he had always looked like that, but this time I thought I saw a harder expression in his eyes. I remembered my confession and it occurred to me that if the priest had spoken, as I feared he had, and Sonzogno had come to know of it, my life wasn’t worth much.

  This thought did not frighten me. But he, as he stood there stiffly beside me, really did frighten me — or rather, he fascinated me and dominated me. I felt I could refuse him nothing, and that there was a bond between us perhaps even stronger than the bond between myself and Mino, although it was certainly not love. He, too, must have felt it instinctively and his whole attitude to me was one of masterfulness. “Let’s go to your place,” he said to me after a while.

  “If you like,” I replied docilely, without the slightest hesitation.

  Mino came up, making his way with some difficulty through the crowd, and stood just beside Sonzogno, clinging to the same seat as he did and actually brushing Sonzogno’s thick, short fingers with his own long, thin ones. The streetcar gave a jerk, they were thrown against one another, and Mino politely begged Sonzogno’s pardon for having bumped into him. I began to suffer at seeing them together, so close and yet so unknown to one another, and I suddenly turned to Mino, with deliberate ostentation, so that Sonzogno would not think I was addressing him. “Look, I’ve just remembered I’ve got an appointment with someone for this evening — it’d be better to say good-bye now.”

  “If you like I’ll see you home.”

  “No — I’m being met at the streetcar stop.”

  This was nothing new. I still took men home and Mino knew it. “As you like,” he said unconcernedly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” I nodded in agreement and he went off through the crowd.

  As I watched him making his way among the people, I was overcome for a moment by a vehement despair. I thought I was seeing him for the last time, but not even I knew why. “Good-bye,” I murmured to myself, as I followed him with my eyes. “Farewell, love.” I wanted to cry out to him to stop, to turn back, but my voice stuck in my throat. The streetcar stopped and I thought I could see him getting down. The streetcar started off again.

  During the whole journey Sonzogno and I never opened our mouths. I felt calmer now and told myself the priest could not possibly have spoken. Besides, after some reflection, I did not really regret this meeting. This way I would be rid of my doubts once and for all concerning the results of my confession.

  I stood up at the stop, got off the streetcar, and walked on a little without looking back. Sonzogno was beside me and I could see him if I turned my head slightly. “What do you want from me?” I asked him at last. “Why have you come back?”

  “You told me to come back yourself!” he said with a touch of astonishment.

  This was true, but in my fear I had forgotten it. He came up close to me and took my arm, gripping it tight and almost holding me up. I began to tremble all over despite myself.

  “Who was that?” he asked.

  “A friend of mine.”

  “Have you seen anything more of Gino?”

  “Never.”

  He looked around him rapidly. “I don’t know why, but I’ve had the impression lately that I’m being followed. There are only two people who could have given me away, you and Gino.”

  “Why Gino?” I asked in a whisper. But my heart had begun to beat violently.

  “He knew I was going to take that thing to the jeweler’s, I’d even told him the name. He doesn’t exactly know I killed him, but he could easily have guessed it.”

  “Gino doesn’t have anything to gain by giving you away; he’d be giving himself away, too.”

  “That’s what I think,” he said between his teeth.

  “As for me,” I went on in my calmest voice, “you can be sure I’ve said nothing. I’m not a fool — I’d be arrested, too.”

  “I hope so, for your sake,” he replied threateningly, then added, “I saw Gino for a moment. He told me as if he were joking that he knew a whole lot of things. I don’t feel easy in my mind. He’s a pig.”

  “You treated him really badly that evening, and of course he hates you now,”-I said. I realized while I was speaking that I almost hoped Gino truly had really denounced him.

  “It was a beautiful punch,” he said with grim vanity. “My hand hurt for two days afterward.”

  “Gino won’t turn you in,” I concluded. “It wouldn’t suit his purposes. Besides, he’s too frightened of you.”

  We were walking side by side, without looking at one another as we spoke, our voices lowered. It was twilight; a bluish mist enveloped the dark walls, the white branches of the plane trees, the yellowish houses, the distant view of the main road. As we reached the street door, I felt for the first time the precise sensation of betraying Mino. I had wanted to delude myself into thinking that Sonzogno was only one of many men, but I knew this was not true. I entered the entrance hall, closed the door behind me, and there in the dark I stopped and turned toward Sonzogno.

  “Look,” I said, “it’s better if you go away.”

  “Why?”

  I wanted to tell him the whole truth, despite the fear that possessed me. “Because I love another man and don’t want to be unfaithful to him.”

  “Who? The man who was with you in the streetcar?”

  I was afraid for Mino. “No, someone else,” I replied hastily. “You don’t know him. And now, do me a favor, leave me, go away.”

  “What if I don’t want to go away?”

  “Don’t you understand that there are some things you can’t get by force?” I began. But I was unable to finish. I do not know how it happened, but without seeing him or his movements in the dark, I suddenly felt him give me a terrible blow full in my face with the back of his hand.

  “Start walking,” he said.

  I hurried on to the stairs with my head bent low. He had seized me by the arm again and was lifting me up every step; I almost felt as if he were raising me off the ground and making me fly. My cheek was burning, but what alarmed me most of all was a sense of tragic foreboding. This blow, I felt, had interrupted the happy rhythm of recent days and now the difficulties and fears of the past were about to return. I was filled with utter despera
tion and decided then and there to escape from the fate I foresaw. I would run away from home that very day. I would find refuge somewhere else, either at Gisella’s or in some furnished room.

  I was thinking so intently about all these things that I hardly noticed that I was in the apartment and had passed through the outer room into my own. I found myself — I might almost say I woke up — seated on the edge of the bed, as Sonzogno was taking off his clothes, piece by piece, and placing them methodically on a chair with the precise, self-satisfied gestures of an orderly man. His fury had passed. “I would have come before,” he said evenly, “but I couldn’t. I’ve been thinking about you all the time, though.”

  “What were you thinking?” I asked mechanically.

  “That we’re made for each other.” He stood still, holding his vest in his hand. “In fact,” he added in a strange tone of voice, “I came to make you a proposal.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got some money. Let’s go away together to Milan, where I’ve got lots of friends. I want to start up a garage. And then in Milan we could get married.”

  I felt as if I were collapsing inside and such weakness overcame me that I closed my eyes. This was the first time since Gino that anyone had proposed marriage to me and it was Sonzogno who made this proposal. The life I had longed for so intensely, with a husband and children, was now being offered to me, but with the normality reduced to a kind of empty sheath, inside which everything was abnormal and terrifying. “But why?” I said feebly. “We hardly know one another, you’ve only seen me once —”

  He sat beside me and put his arm around my waist. “No one knows me better than you do,” he said, “You know everything about me.”

  It occurred to me that he was moved and wanted to show me that he loved me and that I ought to love him. But this was only imagination on my part, for nothing in his behavior warranted the assumption.

  “I know nothing about you,” I said in a low voice, “I only know that you killed a man.”