The Woman of Rome (Italia)

by Alberto Moravia

  On the third day I managed to work out an idea and I stuck to it all morning tenaciously although I dimly felt how unfounded it was. I thought that Mino had become scared when he found out I was pregnant, that he had wanted to escape the obligations inherent to my condition and had gone home to the provinces. It was an unpleasant supposition, but I preferred to think him vile rather than to accept the other possibilities I could not help imagining to explain his disappearance. They were such tragic ones, suggested to me by the circumstances accompanying his flight.

  At noon that day Mother came into my room and threw a letter on the bed. I recognized Mino’s writing and my heart leaped with joy. I waited for Mother to leave the room and then waited for my excitement to die down a little. Then I opened the letter. Here it is.

  Dearest Adriana,

  By the time you receive this letter, I shall already be dead. When I opened the pistol and found it unloaded, I realized right away that it was you and I thought of you with great affection. Poor Adriana, you don’t know anything about guns and you didn’t know there was a bullet in the barrel. The fact that you didn’t notice it strengthened me in my decision. And anyway, there are so many ways to kill yourself.

  As I already told you, I cannot accept what I did. I have realized in these past few days that I love you; but if I were logical, I should hate you; because you are everything I hate in myself, as revealed to me by my interrogation, to the highest degree. What really happened at that moment was that the character I should have been collapsed, and I was only the man I am. It wasn’t a question of cowardice or treachery but only a mysterious interruption of the will. Perhaps not even so mysterious — but that would take me too far from the point. All I need to say is that by killing myself I am putting things back in the order they should be.

  Don’t be afraid. I don’t hate you, in fact I love you so much that just thinking of you reconciles me to life. If it had been possible, I surely would have lived and would have married you and we’d have been, as you so often say, so happy together. But it really wasn’t possible.

  I have thought about the child that is to be born and have written two letters concerning him, one to my family and one to a lawyer friend. They’re decent people, after all, and although one can’t have illusions about their feelings toward you, I am sure they will do their duty. If they should refuse, which I think highly unlikely, don’t hesitate to go to law. My lawyer friend will come and see you and you can trust him.

  Think of me sometimes. I hug you, your Mino.

  P.S. My lawyer friend’s name is Francesco Lauro. His address: Via Cola da Rienzo, 3.

  As soon as I had read this letter, I buried myself under the covers, pulled the sheet over my head, and cried bitterly. I cannot say how long I cried. Every time I thought I had finished, a kind of violent, bitter laceration pierced my breast and made me burst out sobbing again. I did not scream out loud, as I longed to, because I was afraid of attracting Mother’s attention. I wept silently and felt that this was the last time I would ever cry in my whole life. I wept for Mino, for myself, for my whole past and my whole future.

  At last I got up, still crying, and feeling dazed and stupid, with my eyes blinded by tears, I began to dress hurriedly. Then I washed my eyes in cold water, made up my red, swollen face as best I could, and went out quietly without telling Mother.

  I went to the local police station and had myself shown in to the commissioner. He listened to my story and then said skeptically, “Really, we haven’t heard anything about it. You’ll see, he will have changed his mind.”

  I longed for him to be right. But at the same time he irritated me greatly, I don’t know why. “You talk like that because you don’t know him,” I said sharply. “You think everyone’s like you.”

  “Well, look,” he asked. “Do you want him alive or dead?”

  “I want him to live,” I shouted, “I want him to live! But I’m so afraid that he’s dead.”

  He reflected for a moment. Then he said, “Pull yourself together. When he wrote that letter maybe he did want to kill himself. But he might have changed his mind afterward. He’s only human.… It could happen to anyone.”

  “Yes, he’s human,” I stammered. I did not know what I was saying any longer.

  “In any case, come back this evening,” he concluded, “and by then I’ll be able to give you some news.”

  I went straight from the police station to church. It was the church where I had been held up to be baptized, where I had been christened, and where I had made my first communion. It was a very old church, long and bare, with two rows of beige stone columns and a dusty floor of gray paving stones. But in the darkness of the naves on each side, beyond the two rows of columns, were a number of richly gilded chapels like deep grottoes filled with treasure. One of these chapels was dedicated to the Madonna. I knelt down on the floor in the darkness before the bronze screen that shut off the chapel. The Madonna was shown in a big, dark picture behind a large number of vases full of flowers. She held her baby in her arms and a saint dressed like a monk knelt at her feet with clasped hands, adoring her. I bent down to the ground and beat my head hard against the paving stones. As I covered the stone with kisses, I made the sign of the cross in the dust and then called upon the Virgin and made a vow in my heart. I promised I would never let another man touch me, all my life, not even Mino. Making love was the only thing I cared about in the whole world, the only thing I enjoyed, and I thought I could make no greater sacrifice for Mino’s salvation. Then, still bent double with my forehead on the floor, I prayed without words and without thoughts, from my heart. But when I got up I was dazzled. The deep shadow that engulfed the chapel seemed to break into sudden brightness and in this light I distinctly saw the Madonna looking at me sweetly and kindly, but nevertheless shaking her head, as if to say she did not accept my prayer. It lasted only an instant and then I found myself standing once more in front of the screen facing the altar. Feeling more dead than alive, I crossed myself and went home.

  I waited the whole day, counting the minutes and the seconds, and toward evening I went back to see the police commissioner. He looked at me in a certain way, so that I felt as if I were going to faint and said in a ghost of a voice, “It’s true then, he did kill himself.”

  The commissioner picked up a photograph from the table and held it out to me. “A man who has not yet been identified killed himself in a hotel near the station,” he said. “Have a look and see if it’s him.”

  I took the photo and recognized him at once. They had photographed him from the breast up, stretched out on what appeared to be a bed. Black lines of blood ran across his face from the temple where he had shot himself. But beneath these lines his face was serene, as I had never seen it during his lifetime.

  I identified him in a faint voice and got up. The police officer wanted to say something more, perhaps to console me; but I paid no attention to him and went out without turning around.

  I went home and this time I threw myself into Mother’s arms, but without crying. I knew she was stupid and understood nothing, but she was the only person I could confide in. I told her everything — Mino’s suicide, our love, and that I was pregnant. But I did not tell her Sonzogno was the father of my child. I also told her about the vow I had made, and said I had decided to change my way of life and would help her with her shirtmaking or go into service. After trying to console me with a number of silly but sincere phrases, Mother said I shouldn’t make any rash decisions — what I had to do now was to see what the family would do for me.

  “That’s a matter that concerns my child,” I said, “not me.”

  Next morning Mino’s two friends, Tullio and Tommaso, called on me unexpectedly. They, too, had received a letter in which, after telling them he was going to commit suicide, Mino informed them of what he called his betrayal and warned them of the consequences it might have.

  “Don’t worry,” I said sharply. “If you’re scared, you can relax. Nothing at all
will happen to you.” And I told them about Astarita and how Astarita, who was the only one who knew anything, had died, and how the interview had never been written down and they had never been denounced. Tommaso looked sincerely upset about Mino’s death; but the other had not yet recovered from his fear. After a moment Tullio said, “Still, he got us into a mess. Who can trust the police? You never know. It was a real piece of treachery.” And he rubbed his hands together with one of his usual exaggerated bursts of laughter; as if it had been something really amusing.

  I got up in indignation. “What treachery, what treachery,” I said. “He killed himself, what more do you want? Neither of you would have had the courage to do it. And I’ll tell you another thing, too — you two are worthless, even if you aren’t traitors! Because you’re two wretches, two poor men, two miserable creatures who have never had a penny to call your own and your families are wretched, poor, and miserable, and if things go well you’ll finally get what you’ve never had in all your life, and you and your families will be all right. But he was rich, he was born into a wealthy family, he was a gentleman, and if he got mixed up in it, it was because he believed in it, and not because he expected to get anything out of it. He had everything to lose, unlike you, who have everything to gain! That’s what I have to say to you — and you should be ashamed to come here and talk to me about treachery.”

  Little Tullio opened his enormous mouth as if he wanted to reply, but Tommaso, who had understood me, stopped him with a gesture. “You’re right,” he said to me, “but don’t worry. I’ll never think anything but well of Mino, myself.” He seemed moved and I liked him because obviously he had really been fond of Mino. Then they said good-bye and left.

  When I found myself alone once more, I felt almost relieved in my sorrow by what I had said to those two. I thought about Mino and then I thought about my child. I thought how he would be born of a murderer and a prostitute; but any man might happen to kill someone and any woman might sell herself for money; and what mattered most of all was that he should have an easy birth and grow up strong and healthy. I decided that if it was a boy I would call him Giacomo in memory of Mino. But if it was a girl, I would call her Letitia, because I wanted her to have what I had not had, a gay and happy life, and I was sure that, with the help of Mino’s family, that was just what she would have.