Two Friends (18 page)

“Well,” Moroni continued, emphatically, “I must say that it makes me happy to hear it … Miss Lalla is a lovely girl, sweet, genuine, and intelligent. She

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will,” he added, “be a lovely bride.”

Sergio started at the word “bride,” with its old-fashioned, provincial air. Moroni continued: “I would like to be one of your witnesses. I’ve known Miss Lalla for over a year and I feel great affection for her … Please remember.”

As he said this, his voice quivered. Sergio looked up and answered as kindly as he could: “Thank you … As soon as we’ve set the date we’ll let you know, of course.”

Moroni seemed to be in the mood to trade confidences: “Do you know why I like her so much? I lost my wife, and Miss Lalla resembles her … I lost her when she was still young, more or less Miss Lalla’s age … The resemblance is quite strong … See for yourself.” He pulled out his wallet and removed a photograph, which he handed to Sergio. It was an old ID photo of Moroni’s late wife. The face—which was all one could see—looked as if it had been touched by death. One could barely make out the features. Sergio noted a slight resemblance, especially in the irregularity of the face, the large forehead, small nose, and wide mouth. But little else. He returned the photograph to Moroni: “It’s true, there is a certain resemblance.”

“You see?” Moroni said. “It is truly extraordinary … I find it very moving,” he added, touching his face and looking, as he said, quite moved. Sergio peered up at him but said nothing. He had finished eating. Finally, he stood up, leaving his plate and glass on the table. Moroni rushed over: “I’m so sorry … I’m a bit upset; you see my wife was everything to me.”

Sergio poured himself another glass of wine, in silence. “I would love to invite you to the country,” Moroni added, “I have a little house in Olevano …”

“We would love to,” Sergio said, firmly, and headed toward the living room.

Lalla was dancing with a young man with a great

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mop of brown hair and thick glasses. Sergio noticed
that she seemed very drunk: she shifted her feet clumsily and grasped her partner tightly, her hips moving awkwardly like an animal whose lower limbs have been affected by a strange paralysis. He sat in a corner, trying not to look at her: seeing her move so clumsily and with so little grace made him feel a wave of contempt and almost hatred, as toward something vile and almost worthless. After the song ended Lalla did not leave her partner; the two stood side by side in the middle of the room, talking. Then the dancing began again; there were more couples now, and Sergio saw that her shaggy-haired partner was casually leading Lalla toward another room, through a half-open door. They twisted and turned awhile longer near the door, after which the dancer lightly pushed the door open with the same hand he used to encircle Lalla’s waist, and they disappeared into the next room. The door, which the man had pushed from inside the room, was now in its original position, slightly ajar, and no one had noticed their disappearance. For a moment, Sergio did nothing as feelings of rage and jealousy washed over him. Finally, he pushed through the throng of dancers and opened the door to the other room. He stood in the doorway.

As he had suspected, they were no longer dancing. The room contained a bed, an armoire, and a few other pieces of furniture. There were coats and hats everywhere. Lalla was sitting on the bed with her back to the door, struggling clumsily in the arms of the shaggy-haired man. She did not seem to be fighting very hard; one of her shoulders was already exposed and her blouse was sliding down her arm. The young man was insistently trying to twist her head so
that their lips met. Lalla was still struggling, but just as Sergio came into the room she was beginning to put up less of a fight. Sergio went around to the bed and violently yanked the shoulder that was still covered. “Get up. Let’s go,” he growled.

The young man let go and Lalla pulled away slightly, clumsily fixing her hair. “Who are you?” the man asked Sergio.

“That’s none of your business,” Sergio replied. “You were right to bring her here … That’s how it’s done, isn’t it? After all, the
signorina
didn’t put up much of a fight, did she, so your conscience is clear.

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But now the
signorina
is coming with me, because I am who I am.”

“Listen here,” the man objected, standing up. Lalla was sobbing: “Sergio … stop it … leave me alone … go away.” As she said this, she rose lazily from the bed.

“I’ll go, but you’re coming with me.”

“Don’t move,” the other man said, in a more confident tone, as he walked up to Sergio. “Who are you?”

“That’s right, who are you?” Lalla said in a drunken voice.

Sergio stared at Lalla’s cheek. The skin was dark and covered with a fine down which, at the temples and around her ears, gradually merged with her hairline; her hair was combed up in a bun. He was tempted to become violent, but with a cold, almost experimental aggression. He raised a hand and slapped his lover, saying: “That’s who I am, and now let’s go.”

She bowed her head, as if in defeat. “Stop that,” the bespectacled young man objected, but Sergio pushed him out of the way and he fell backward onto the bed,
into a pile of overcoats. Gripping Lalla’s arm, Sergio pushed her out of the room, through the crowd of dancing guests and into the foyer, where they were joined by their host. “Are you leaving?”

“Yes … Lalla’s not feeling well.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Moroni mumbled a few more niceties, and repeated the invitation to his villa in Olevano. He held the door open for them. Lalla stared

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down at the floor as she dressed mechanically and said good-bye to her student. Sergio continued to grip her arm as they descended the stairs. Once outside, Sergio hailed a taxi and they got in. As the taxi drove away, Sergio turned to Lalla and said, “You whore.”

Lalla did not respond and simply sat in silence with her head down, as if lost in thought. As they passed a streetlamp, Sergio noticed that she was crying. For some reason, this rekindled his contempt, and he said, with conviction: “You’re just a whore … Anyone can have you … They don’t even have to pay you … Never mind your feelings of gratitude toward Maurizio … some whiskey is enough. Whore.”

Still in silence, she shook her head and continued to cry. As the taxi sped along, Sergio felt his rage increasing. Suddenly unable to control himself, he said again: “You whore,” and hit her awkwardly on the back with his fist. Lalla moaned and hid her face in her hands.

When they arrived, the taxi stopped and they got out. As Sergio paid, the driver observed: “That’s no way to talk to a woman.” He was almost an old man, with the air of a paterfamilias. Sergio stared at him for a moment and then silently grabbed Lalla’s arm, pushing her toward the door.

They climbed up the stairs four by four, practically running. Lalla kept tripping, covering her face with one hand. Once they reached their landing, Sergio dragged her toward their room. He pushed her violently onto the bed. She fell heavily, making the bedsprings creak. Then he closed the door and turned on the light.

Lalla was lying facedown on the bed with her face in her hands, sobbing loudly. Sergio sat down on the bed and said, furiously: “I can’t leave you alone for a moment without you doing something stupid … What’s wrong with you? What kind of a woman are you?”

Without looking up, still sobbing, she replied: “Why are you so cruel, Sergio? I’m drunk, I already told you … and I’m so tired of this life, of being poor, tired of everything … That’s why men can do what they want with me … But why are you so cruel? Why don’t you try to understand?”

An enraged lucidity had replaced everything else in Sergio’s mind. “So you’re tired of being poor?” he said, furiously. “Well look what I have here. I have money for you, look here … Get up and look.” He removed

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Maurizio’s check from his wallet and grabbed Lalla’s hair, pulling it until she was sitting upright. “Here’s your money, look at it. Two hundred thousand lire.”

She stared at the check in astonishment. Despite his rage, Sergio took care to conceal Maurizio’s signature on the check with his thumb. “Now you can buy clothes and everything else you want … I signed a contract to write a screenplay for two hundred thousand lire … Later I’ll get another eight
hundred … so you can stop complaining about how poor we are.”

He put the check back in his wallet and pulled Lalla toward him, until their faces were almost touching, and stared into her eyes: “Listen to me … you were about to sleep with that lout just because you had a few drinks in you … so it seems that such things are not difficult for you. Now, listen to me … Maurizio is planning to join the Party within the next month … Do you hear me? He’s going to sign up. But in return, he wants you … Listen, now … I want you to do what you were about to do with that dancing monkey for nothing, you whore, but with Maurizio instead, to ensure that he keeps his promise. Do you understand me?”

She stared at him, bewildered. “You want me to become Maurizio’s lover?” she said, finally.

“Yes,” Sergio answered angrily, although with less conviction.

“Do you know what you’re asking?”

“Of course … I’m asking you to do this for a good cause, instead of doing it for no reason at all.”

She touched her face and said in a muted tone: “I feel awful … I really drank too much.”

She said those words in a languid voice. She got

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up from the bed, walked to the door shakily, and disappeared. Sergio remained on the bed, still furious, wallet in hand.

Lalla was gone for a long while. Finally, when she returned, she closed the door behind her and went over to the mirror. Sergio stared, waiting for an answer and hating himself for it. The answer never came. Lalla undressed, walked around in the nude for a few minutes,
put on her tattered old nightgown, and returned to the bed, without a word. Sergio wanted to press her for an answer, but could not find the strength. Meekly, Lalla said, “Move over so I can get in.” He got up and she climbed into bed. He too undressed and climbed under the covers, suddenly exhausted, and fell asleep at once. During the night, he thought he saw a light and the outline of Lalla leaning on one elbow, one breast visible through the holes in her nightshirt, with a lock of hair dangling in her face as she contemplated him in silence. But perhaps, he reflected the following morning, it had all been a dream.

A few days later, the three of them decided to go to Olevano. Maurizio had a dilapidated old car that he hardly ever brought out of the garage where it sat rusting away. Moroni, Lalla’s pupil, was expecting them. Sergio and Lalla had not returned to the subject of Maurizio’s political conversion and the condition he had placed for it. Lalla’s silence was so ambiguous that Sergio sometimes had the strange feeling that the subject had never been broached at all. Other times, he felt that the issue hung in the air and that even though none of them mentioned it, they were all thinking about it. It was present in their spirits if not on their lips, fermenting, growing, becoming increasingly real. But none of them discussed it. Sergio felt that one day it would explode, like an illness lying dormant in an apparently healthy body.

They left early. Lalla sat in the front next to Maurizio,

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with Sergio in the back. During the trip they laughed and joked, intoxicated by the thrill of the road, the beautiful spring weather, and the change of scenery after so many months in the city. Lalla was, it seemed to Sergio, particularly affectionate toward him. She was wearing a new skirt, a new blouse, and new silk stockings, all bought with Maurizio’s money. She glanced back at Sergio several times and said: “Sergio is making money now … Maurizio, you wouldn’t believe it … everything I’m wearing, from my hat to my shoes, was bought with Sergio’s money.” Maurizio answered calmly: “How lovely … So what happened?” “Sergio is writing a screenplay,” she said proudly; “the hard times are over.” Her happiness and the new clothes made her look even prettier. Every so often she turned to Sergio, gazing at him affectionately with her large, dark eyes or quickly caressing his hand, which lay on his knee. Sergio felt a strange emotion, a combination of guilt and surprise: Could she really still love him after his proposal? How could she not realize that he did not love her and considered her an object, precious perhaps, but inanimate, to be used as a means to an end? He knew of course that she could not have forgotten his proposal. And he wondered, almost cruelly, what her decision would be now that the problem was in her hands, with all its humiliating weight and mortifying ambiguity.

They drove for a long time through the countryside in the warm spring sun. After they passed Zagarolo and were driving through terraced hills and small forests, the car suddenly came to a stop. “Something
must be wrong with the motor,” Maurizio said; “this damned car is always breaking down.” He got out and invited the others to do so as well. While Maurizio peered at the motor, Sergio and Lalla began to walk down the empty, sunny road.

It was a beautiful day. Lalla pointed out a few tiny white clouds, clearly delineated against the pure, luminous blue sky. Sergio suddenly turned to her: “Why did you tell Moroni that we were getting married this year?”

“How do you know?”

“He told me.”

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“I know we’ll probably never get married, but I love you … Perhaps you won’t understand this, but a woman always hopes to marry the man who loves her. I’m a woman just like any other. I would like to be your wife.”

“But I don’t want to be your husband,” he said, harshly.

Without seeming to notice his tone, she took his arm. “Let me at least have my illusions … Why are you so cruel? What have I done to you?”

“Nothing.”

“You see? So why not just let me say whatever I like? Another person might say that they hope to win the lotto, and I say that I would like to marry you … What harm is there? There was a good reason for me to say it.”

“What was that?”

“Moroni is in love with me. He says that I look exactly like his dead wife. He has asked me to marry him several times. So, just to shut him up, I told him we were engaged.”