by John Fante
There was the night when Rocco asked Bandini to introduce him to the Widow Hildegarde. Bandini shook his head doubtfully. ‘You would not understand her, Rocco. She is a woman of great learning, a college graduate.’
‘Pooh!’ Rocco said indignantly. ‘Who the hell are you?’
Bandini pointed out that the Widow Hildegarde was a constant reader of books, whereas Rocco could neither read nor write in English. Furthermore, Rocco still spoke English poorly. His presence would only do harm to the rest of the Italian people.
Rocco sneered. ‘What of that?’ he said. ‘There are other things besides reading and writing.’ He crossed the room to the clothes closet and flung open the door. ‘Reading and writing!’ he sneered. ‘And what good has it done you? Do you have as many suits of clothes as I? As many neckties? I have more clothes than the president of the University of Colorado – what good have reading and writing done him?’
He smiled that Rocco should reason thus, but Rocco had the right idea. Bricklayers and college presidents, they were all the same. A matter of where and why.
‘I will speak to the Widow on your behalf,’ he promised.
‘But she is not interested in what a man wears. Dio cane, it is just the other way around.’
Rocco nodded sagely.
‘Then I have nothing to worry about.’
His last hours with the Widow were like the first. Hello and goodbye, they added up to the same thing. They were strangers, with passion alone to bridge the chasm of their differences, and there was no passion that afternoon.
‘My friend Rocco Saccone,’ Bandini said. ‘He’s a good bricklayer too.’
She lowered her book and looked at him over the rim of her gold reading glasses.
‘Indeed,’ she murmured.
He twirled his whiskey glass.
‘He’s a good man, all right.’
‘Indeed,’ she said again. For some minutes she continued to read. Perhaps he should not have said that. The obvious implication startled him.
He sat laboring in the muddle he had made of it, the sweat breaking out, an absurd grin plastered across the sickly convolutions of his face. More silence. He looked out the window. Already the night was at work, rolling shadowy carpets across the snow. Soon it would be time to go.
It was bitterly disappointing. If only something beside the beast stalked between himself and this woman. If he could but tear away that curtain the fact of her wealth spread before him. Then he might talk as he did to any woman. She made him so stupid. Jesu Christi! He was no fool. He could talk. He had a mind which reasoned and fought through hardships far greater than hers. Of books, no. There had been no time in his driven, worried life for books. But he had read deeper into the language of life than she, despite her ubiquitous books. He brimmed with a world of things of speak about.
As he sat there, staring at her for what he believed to be the last time, he realized that he was not afraid of this woman. That he had never been afraid of her, that it was she who feared him. The truth angered him, his mind shuddering at the prostitution to which he had subjected his flesh. She did not look up from her book. She did not see the brooding insolence twisting one side of his face. Suddenly he was glad it was the end. With an unhurried swagger he rose and crossed to the window.
‘Getting dark,’ he said. ‘Pretty soon I’ll go away and won’t come back no more.’
The book came down automatically.
‘Did you say something, Svevo?’
‘Pretty soon I won’t come back no more.’
‘It has been delightful, hasn’t it?’
‘You don’t understand nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing.’
‘What do you mean?’
He did not know. It was there, yet not there. He opened his mouth to speak, opened his hands and spread them out.
‘A woman like you …’
He could say no more. If he succeeded, it would be crude and badly phrased, defeating the thing he wanted to explain. He shrugged futilely.
Let it go, Bandini; forget it.
She was glad to see him sit down again, smiling her satisfaction and returning to her book. He looked at her bitterly. This woman – she did not belong to the race of human beings. She was so cold, a parasite upon his vitality. He resented her politeness: it was a lie. He despised her complacency, he loathed her good breeding. Surely, now that it was over and he was going away, she could put down that book and talk to him. Perhaps they would say nothing important, but he was willing to try, and she was not.
‘I musn’t forget to pay you,’ she said.
A hundred dollars. He counted it, shoved it into his back pocket.
‘Is it enough?’ she asked.
He smiled; ‘If I did not need this money a million dollars would not be enough.’
‘Then you want more. Two hundred?’
Better not to quarrel. Better to leave and be gone forever, without bitterness. He pushed his fists through his coat sleeves and chewed the end of his cigar.
‘You’ll come to see me, won’t you?’
‘To be sure, Mrs Hildegarde.’
But he was certain he would never return.
‘Goodbye, Mr Bandini.’
‘Goodbye, Mrs Hildegarde.’
‘A merry Christmas.’
‘The same to you, Mrs Hildegarde.’
Goodbye and hello again in less than an hour.
The Widow opened the door to his knocking and saw the dotted handkerchief masking all but his bloodshot eyes. Her breath shot back in horror.
‘God in heaven!’
He stamped the snow from his feet and brushed the front of his coat with one hand. She could not see the bitter pleasure in the smile behind the handkerchief, nor hear the muffled Italian curses. Someone was to blame for this, and it was not Svevo Bandini. His eyes accused her as he stepped inside, snow from his shoes melting in a pool on the carpet.
She retreated to the bookcase, watching him speechlessly. The heat from the fireplace stung his face. With a groan of rage he hurried to the bathroom. She followed, standing at the open door as he blubbered into fistfuls of cold water. Her cheeks crept with pity as he gasped. When he looked into the mirror he saw the twisted, torn image of himself and it repulsed him, and he shook his head in a rage of denial.
‘Ah, poor Svevo!’
What was it? What had happened?
‘What do you suppose?’
‘Your wife?’
He dabbed the cuts with salve.
‘But this is impossible!’
‘Bah.’
She stiffened, lifting her chin proudly.
‘I tell you it’s impossible. Who could have told her?’
‘How do I know who told her?’
He found a bandage kit in the cabinet and began tearing strips of gauze and adhesive. The tape was tough. He shrieked a volley of curses at its obstinacy, breaking it against his knee with a violence that staggered him backward toward the bathtub. In triumph he held the strip of tape before his eyes and leered at it.
‘Don’t get tough with me!’ he said to the tape.
Her hand was raised to help him.
‘No,’ he growled. ‘No piece of tape can get the best of Svevo Bandini.’
She turned away. When she came back he was applying gauze and tape. There were four long strips on either cheek, reaching from his eyeballs to his chin. He saw her and was startled. She was dressed to go out: fur coat, blue scarf, hat, and galoshes. That quiet elegance of her appeal, that rich simplicity of her tiny hat tipped jauntily to the side, the bright wool scarf spilling from the luxurious collar of her fur, the gray galoshes with their neat buckles and the long gray driving gloves, stamped her again for what she was, a rich woman subtly proclaiming her difference. He was awed.
‘The door at the end of the hall is an extra bedroom,’ she said. ‘I should be back around midnight.’
‘You’re going someplace?’
‘It’s Christmas Eve.’ She said it as though, had it
been any other day, she would have stayed home.
She was gone, the sound of her car drifting to nothing down the mountain road. Now a strange impulse seized him. He was alone in the house, all alone. He walked to her room and groped and searched through her effects. He opened drawers, examined old letters and papers. At the dressing table he lifted the cork from every perfume bottle, sniffed it, and returned it exactly to where he had found it. Here was a desire he had long felt, bursting out of control now that he was alone, this desire to touch and smell and fondle and examine at leisure everything that was her possession. He caressed her lingerie, pressed her cold jewels between his palms. He opened inviting little drawers in her writing desk, studied the fountain pens and pencils, the bottles and boxes therein. He peered into shelves, searched through trunks, removing each item of apparel, every nicknack and jewel and souvenir, studied each with care, evaluated it, and returned it to the place whence it had come. Was he a thief groping for plunder? Did he seek the mystery of this woman’s past? No and no again. Here was a new world and he wished to know it well. That and no more.
It was after eleven when he sank into the deep bed in the extra room. Here was a bed the like of which his bones had never known. It seemed that he sank miles before dropping to sweet rest. Around his ears the satin eiderdown blankets pressed their gentle warm weight. He sighed with something like a sob. This night at least, there would be peace. He lay talking to himself softly in the language of his nativity.
‘All will be well – a few days and all will be forgotten. She needs me. My children need me. A few more days and she will get over it.’
From afar he heard the tolling of bells, the call for midnight Mass at the Church of the Sacred Heart. He rose to one elbow and listened. Christmas morning. He saw his wife kneeling at Mass, his three sons in pious procession down the main altar as the choir sang ‘Adeste Fideles.’ His wife, his pitiful Maria. Tonight she would be wearing that battered old hat, as old as their marriage, remade year after year to meet as far as possible the new styles. Tonight – nay, at that very moment – he knew she knelt on wearied knees, her trembling lips moving in prayer for himself and his children. Oh star of Bethlehem! Oh birth of the infant Jesus!
Through the window he saw the tumbling flakes of snow, Svevo Bandini in another woman’s bed as his wife prayed for his immortal soul. He lay back, sucking the big tears that streamed down his bandaged face. Tomorrow he would go home again. It had to be done. On his knees he would sue for forgiveness and peace. On his knees, after the kids were gone and his wife was alone. He could never do it in their presence. The kids would laugh and spoil it all.
One glance at the mirror next morning killed his determination. There was the hideous image of his ravaged face, now purple and swollen, black puffs under the eyes. He could meet no man with those telltale scars. His own sons would flinch in horror. Growling and cursing, he threw himself into a chair and tore at his hair. Jesu Christi! He dared not even walk the streets. No man, seeing him, could fail to read the language of violence scrawled upon his countenance. For all the lies he might tell – that he had fallen on the ice, that he had fought a man over a card game – there could be no doubt that a woman’s hands had torn his cheeks.
He dressed, and tiptoed past the Widow’s closed door to the kitchen, where he ate a breakfast of bread and butter and black coffee. After washing the dishes he returned to his room. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of himself on the dresser mirror. The reflection angered him so that he clinched his fists, and controlled the desire to smash the mirror. Moaning and cursing, he threw himself on the bed, his head rolling from side to side as he realized it might be a week before the scratches would heal and the swelling subside so that his face was fit for the gaze of human society.
A sunless Christmas Day. The snowing had stopped. He lay listening to the patter of melting icicles. Toward noon he heard the cautious knocking of the Widow’s knuckles on the door. He knew it was she, yet he leaped out of bed like a criminal pursued by the police.
‘Are you there?’ she asked.
He could not face her.
‘One moment!’ he said.
Quickly he opened the top dresser drawer, whipped out a hand towel, and bound it over his face, masking all but his eyes. Then he opened the door. If she was startled by his appearance, she did not show it. Her hair was pulled up in a thin net, her plump figure wrapped in a frilled pink dressing gown.
‘Merry Christmas,’ she smiled.
‘My face,’ he apologized, pointing to it. ‘The towel keeps it warm. Makes it get well quick.’
‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Best bed I ever slept in. Fine bed, very soft.’
She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, bouncing herself experimentally. ‘Why,’ she said, ‘it’s softer than mine.’
‘Pretty good bed, all right.’
She hesitated, then stood up. Her eyes met his frankly.
‘You know you’re welcome,’ she said. ‘I hope you’ll stay.’
What should he say? He stood in silence, his mind searching about until he came upon a suitable reply. ‘I’ll pay you board and room,’ he said. ‘Whatever you charge, I’ll pay.’
‘Why, the idea!’ she answered. ‘Don’t you dare suggest such a thing! You’re my guest. This is no boarding house – this is my home!’
‘You’re a good woman, Mrs Hildegarde. Fine woman.’
‘Nonsense!’
Just the same, he made up his mind to pay her. Two or three days, until his face healed … Two dollars a day … No more of the other thing.
There was something else:
‘We’ll have to be very careful,’ she said. ‘You know how people talk.’
‘I know, all right,’ he answered.
Still there was something more. She dug her fingers into the pocket of the dressing gown. A key with a beaded chain attached.
‘It’s for the side door,’ she said.
She dropped it into his open palm and he examined it, pretending it was a most extraordinary thing, but it was only a key and after a while he shoved it into his pocket.
One more matter:
She hoped he didn’t mind, but this was Christmas Day, this afternoon she expected guests. Christmas gifts and such things.
‘So perhaps it would be best.’
‘Sure,’ he interrupted. ‘I know.’
‘There’s no great hurry. An hour or so.’
Then she left. Pulling the towel from his face, he sat on the bed and rubbed the back of his neck in bewilderment. Again his glance caught the hideous image in the mirror. Dio Christo! If anything, he looked even worse. What was he to do now?
Suddenly he saw himself in another light. The stupidity of his position revolted him. What manner of jackass was he, that he could be led away by the nose because people were coming to this house? He was no criminal; he was a man, a good man too. He had a trade. He belonged to the union. He was an American citizen. He was a father, with sons. Not far away was his home; perhaps it did not belong to him, but it was his home, a roof of his own. What had come over him, that he should skulk and hide like a murderer? He had done wrong – certamente – but where upon the earth was a man who hadn’t?
His face – bah!
He stood before the mirror and sneered. One by one he peeled off the bandages. There were other things more important than his face. Besides, in a few days it would be as good as new. He was no coward; he was Svevo Bandini; above all, a man – a brave man. Like a man he would stand before Maria and ask her to forgive him. Not to beg. Not to plead. Forgive me, he would say. Forgive me. I done wrong. It won’t happen again.
The determination sent a chill of satisfaction through him. He grabbed his coat, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and walked quietly out of the house without a word to the Widow.
Christmas Day! He threw his chest into it, dragged deep breaths of it down. What a Christmas this would be! How fine to bear out the courage of
his convictions. The splendor of being a brave and an honorable man! Reaching the first street within the city limits, he saw a woman in a red hat approaching him. Here was the test for his face. He threw back his shoulders, tilted his chin. To his delight, the woman did not even look at him after her first quick glance. The rest of the way home, he whistled ‘Adeste Fideles.’
Maria, here I come!
The snow in the front walk had not been shoveled. Ho, and so the kids were loafing on the job during his absence. Well, he would put a stop to that immediately. From now on, things would be run differently. Not only himself, but the whole family would turn over a new leaf, beginning this day.
Strange, but the front door was locked, the curtains pulled down. Not so strange at that: he remembered that on Christmas Day there were five Masses at the church, the last Mass at twelve noon. The boys would be there. Maria, however, always went to midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. Then she must be home. He pounded the screen without success. Then he went around to the back door and it was locked too. He peered into the kitchen window. A funnel of steam coming from the tea-kettle on the stove told him that someone was certainly there. He pounded again, this time with both fists. No answer.
‘What the devil,’ he grumbled, continuing around the house to the window of his own bedroom. Here the shades were down, but the window was open. He scratched it with his nails, calling her name.
‘Maria. Oh, Maria.’
‘Who is it?’ The voice was sleepy, tired.
‘It’s me, Maria. Open up.’
‘What do you want?’
He heard her rising from bed and the movement of a chair, as though bumped in the darkness. The curtain opened from the side and he saw her face, thick with sleep, her eyes uncertain and retreating from the blinding white snow. He choked, laughed a little in joy and fear.
‘Maria.’
‘Go away,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you.’
The curtain closed again.
‘But Maria. Listen!’
Her voice was tense, excited.
‘I don’t want you near me. Go away. I can’t stand the sight of you!’
He pressed the screen with the palms of his hand and laid his head against it, beseeching her. ‘Maria, please. I have something to say to you. Open the door Maria, let me talk.’
