The Woman of Rome (17 page)

“Is he married, too?” I asked innocently.

“No, but he tells me such stories — I think he’s playing me for a fool. But I told him straight out, ‘Look here, my dear, I don’t need you, you can stay if you want, if not, clear out!’ ”

I said nothing, but I did not think there was much similarity between us or between my relationship with Gino and hers with Riccardo. In her heart, she had never had any illusions about Riccardo’s intentions, and had not thought twice on occasion, as I well knew, about betraying him. I, on the contrary, had placed all the hopes of my inexpert heart on becoming Gino’s wife and had always been faithful to him; certainly the favor Astarita had
obliged me to do him at Viterbo by his blackmail could not really be called infidelity. But I thought she would probably be offended if I said this to her, so I did not speak. At the outer door she arranged to meet me on the following evening at a pastry shop, warning me to be punctual because she would probably have someone with her. Then she ran off.

I realized I ought to tell Mother what had happened but I did not dare. Mother really loved me; and being the opposite of Gisella, who saw in Gino’s treachery only the triumph of her own theories and did not even try to conceal from me her cruel delight, Mother would feel more sorrow than joy at seeing how right she had been in the end. At heart she desired only my happiness and did not care how I achieved it; only she was sure Gino would not be able to give it to me. After much hesitation, I decided not to tell her anything. I knew that the following evening, deeds, not words, would open her eyes; and although I realized it was a brutal way of showing her the great change that had come about in my life, I liked the idea that by so doing I would avoid the many explanations, reflections, and comments Gisella had poured out so generously when I had told her the tale of Gino’s deceit. To tell the truth, I felt a kind of disgust now for the whole institution of marriage and wanted to talk about it as little as possible and make others avoid the subject too.

The following day I pretended to have an appointment with Gino and stayed out all afternoon so that Mother, who was already suspicious, would not pester me all the time. I had had something new made for the wedding, a gray suitdress, which I had intended to wear immediately after the ceremony. It was my best dress and I hesitated a long time before putting it on. But then I thought that one day or another I would be obliged to wear it, and it would not be on any purer or happier day than today, and that, on the other hand, men judge by appearances and it would suit my purposes better to show myself at my best; and I laid my scruples aside. And so I put on, not without certain misgivings, my best dress that today, when I think of it, seems very plain and simple like all my clothes at the time, did my hair carefully, and painted my face, but no
more than usual. And while on this subject, I must say that I have never understood why so many women in my profession plaster their faces so thickly and then go on the street looking as if they were wearing carnival masks. Perhaps it is because, with the life they lead, they would otherwise look too pale; or perhaps because they are afraid that if they did not paint themselves so crudely, they would not attract men’s attention and so be able to show them that they are approachable. However tired I may be and however much I overdo it, I never lose my healthy, bronzed look, and I can say, without blushing, that my looks, without the aid of too much make-up, have always been enough to make men turn their heads to stare at me when I pass down the street. I don’t attract men by using lipstick or mascara or peroxiding my hair, but by my majestic bearing (at least, that’s what lots of them have told me), the sweet serenity of my expression, my perfect teeth when I laugh, and the girlish mass of my dark, wavy hair. Women who dye their hair and paint their faces probably do not realize that men, judging them for what they are from the very outset, feel a kind of disillusionment in anticipation. But I, being so natural and restrained, have always left them in doubt about my real character, and in this way have given them an illusion of adventure that, in the end, is what they want far more than the mere satisfaction of their senses.

When I was dressed and made up, I went to a movie and saw the same film through twice. I left the movie when night had fallen and went straight to the pastry shop where I had the appointment with Gisella. It was not one of the ordinary cheap places where we used to meet Riccardo on other occasions; it was an elegant place and I had never been there before. I realized that the choice of this place was meant specifically to provide a background worthy of me and to raise the price of my favors. Such attention to these and other details, which I will mention later, can lead a woman of my kind, if she is young and beautiful and knows how to use these gifts intelligently, to a steady, comfortable position in life, which is what we all aim at in our hearts. But not many do it; and I was never one of them who did. My humble origin has always made me look suspiciously at luxury. I have always felt ill at ease in restaurants,
tearooms, and bourgeois cafés, ashamed to smile or make eyes at the men, as if, in all those glittering lights, I were running the gauntlet. I have always felt a deep and warm attraction for the city streets, with their palaces, churches, monuments, shops, and doorways, which make them more beautiful and welcoming than any restaurant or tearoom. It has always been a favorite habit of mine to go down into the street about the time of sunset and walk slowly along beside the lighted shop windows to watch the twilight gradually darken the sky above the roofs; I have always liked to wander among the crowds and to listen without turning around to the amorous suggestions that the most unexpected passersby, in a sudden exaltation of the senses, risk whispering on the spur of the moment.

I have always loved to pace up and down the same street again and again, feeling almost worn out at the end but as fresh and eager in my heart as at a fair, where the surprises are inexhaustible. The street has always been my restaurant, my drawing room, my café, and this is because I was born poor, and the poor are known to get their entertainment cheap by gazing at shop windows where they cannot afford to buy and at the facades of palaces where they cannot afford to live. For the same reason, I have always loved the churches, of which there are so many in Rome, a luxury within everyone’s reach since they are always open, where the ancient, humble stench of poverty is often stronger than the smell of incense among the marble, the gold, and the precious ornaments. But a rich man, of course, does not walk through the streets or go to church; at most he crosses the city in his car, leaning back against the cushions and occasionally reading a newspaper. By preferring the street to any other spot, I immediately cut myself off from all those introductions that, according to Gisella, I should have sought out at the sacrifice of my own most deeply rooted tastes. I was never disposed to make such a sacrifice, and all the time I was Gisella’s partner these tastes were a subject of heated discussion between us. Gisella did not like the street; churches meant nothing to her; and crowds only disgusted her and filled her with scorn. She aimed at the expensive restaurants, where attentive waiters anxiously watch their clients’
slightest gesture; fashionable dance halls, with a band in uniform and dancers in evening dress; the smartest cafés and gambling halls. She became quite a different person in such places, changed her gestures, carriage, and even the tone of her voice. In fact, she affected the behavior of a real lady; and this was the ideal she aimed at, and that later, as we shall see, she attained to some degree. But, in the end, the most curious aspect of her success was that she met the person fated to fulfill her ambitions not in a fashionable haunt, but through me, in the street she loathed so heartily.

I found Gisella at the pastry shop with a middle-aged man, a commercial traveler, whom she introduced as Giacinti. When seated, he appeared to be of normal height, because his shoulders were very broad, but when he stood up, he turned out to be almost a dwarf, and his broad shoulders made him appear even shorter than he was. His thick white hair, gleaming like silver, was brushed straight up off his forehead, perhaps to make him seem taller, and his face was red and healthy, with the regular and noble features of a statue; he had a handsome smooth forehead, large dark eyes, a straight nose, and well-shaped mouth. But an unpleasing expression of vanity, of conceit and false benevolence, made his face, which at first sight seemed attractive and majestic, absolutely repellent.

I felt rather shy and sat down without saying a word after the introductions were over. Giacinti, as though my arrival were only an unimportant incident, whereas it was really the whole purpose of the evening, went on with what he had been saying to Gisella. “You can’t complain of me, Gisella,” he said, and placed a hand on her knee, keeping it there all the time he was talking. “How long did our — let’s call it alliance — last? Six months? Well, can you say, with your hand on your heart, that in all those six months I sent you away dissatisfied?” His speech was clear, slow, accented, emphatic, but he obviously spoke in that way not so much to make himself understood as to listen to his own voice and enjoy every word he uttered.

“No, no,” said Gisella in bored tones, lowering her head.

“Get Gisella to tell you, Adriana,” Giacinti went on in his clear,
emphatic voice. “Not only have I never stinted on money for her — shall we call them professional earnings? — but every time I came back from Milan I always brought her a present. Do you remember the time I brought you a bottle of French perfume, now? And the other time I gave you a silk and lace chemise? Women like to say men don’t understand anything about lingerie — but I’m an exception to the rule!” He laughed, softly, showing perfect teeth but so curiously white that they seemed false.

“Give me a cigarette, do,” said Gisella shortly.

“At once!” he replied with ironic courtesy. He offered me one, too, took one himself, and after he had lit it continued. “Do you remember the purse I brought you another time — a big leather one — that was something to write home about! Don’t you use it anymore?”

“It’s a morning bag,” said Gisella.

“I like giving presents,” he continued, turning to me, “not for sentimental reasons, you understand —” he shook his head, puffing smoke from his nostrils “— but for three clear reasons. One — I like to be thanked. Two — there’s nothing like a present for getting yourself properly treated. In fact, anyone who has once had a present from you always hopes for another. Three — because women like an illusion and a present makes them feel there’s some sentiment involved, even when there isn’t.”

“You’re a deep one,” said Gisella indifferently, without even looking at him.

He shook his head, showing all his teeth in a handsome smile. “No, I’m not deep — I’m simply a man with some experience of life who has been able to learn from his experience.… I know you have to do certain things with women, others with your clients, others with your servants, and so on. My mind’s like an extremely tidy card index. For instance — a woman in the offing!.… I take down my notebook, look through it, find that certain measures obtained the desired effect, others didn’t; I put the notebook back in its place and act accordingly. That’s all there is to it.” He stopped and smiled again.

Gisella was smoking with a bored look; I said nothing.

“And I find women are grateful to me,” he continued, “because they realize at once that they won’t have any disappointments with me. I know what they expect, their weaknesses, and their whims — just as I, myself, am grateful to a client who understands me at a glance, one who doesn’t waste my time chatting, knows what he wants and what I want — I’ve got an ashtray on my desk in Milan with the words: ‘Lord bless those who don’t waste my time.’ ” He threw his cigarette down and looking at his watch added, “It’s about time to go and have a meal.”

“What’s the time?”

“Eight. Excuse me a moment — I’ll be right back.”

He got up and went out at the end of the room. He really was very short, with his broad shoulders and thick white hair standing up on top of his head. Gisella crushed out her cigarette on the ashtray. “He’s an awful bore and talks of nothing but himself,” she said.

“I noticed that.”

“Just let him talk, and say yes all the time,” she went on. “You’ll see, he’ll tell you heaps of things — he thinks he’s God knows what — but he’s very free with his money and really does give you presents.”

“Yes, but then he keeps on reminding you —”

She did not reply, but shook her head as if to say, “What can you do about it?” We were silent for a while, then Giacinti came back, paid, and we left the pastry shop.

“Gisella,” said Giacinti, when we were in the street, “this evening is Adriana’s — but would you like to come to supper with us?”

“No, no, thanks,” Gisella replied hurriedly, “I’ve got a date.” She said good-bye to Giacinti and went off.

“What a nice girl she is,” I remarked to Giacinti as soon as she had gone.

He made a face. “Not bad,” he said. “She’s got a good figure.”

“Don’t you like her?”

“I don’t require of anyone that they should be likable,” he said, walking beside me and holding my arm tight, high up, almost under the armpit, “but that they should do well whatever they do — I don’t ask a typist to be likable, for instance, but to be able to
type quickly without making mistakes. And I don’t ask a girl like Gisella to be pleasant, but to know how to do her job, that is, to give me a good time for the hour or two I spend with her. Now Gisella doesn’t know how to do her job.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s always thinking about money — and she’s always afraid she won’t be paid or won’t get enough. I don’t expect her to love me, but it’s part of her profession to behave as though she really did love me, and give me an illusion — that’s what I pay her for. But Gisella makes it too obvious she’s only doing it for her own interest — she doesn’t even give you time to get your breath before she starts haggling. It’s no good!”