Two Friends (24 page)

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bitterness accumulated throughout the day. With a sort of sixth sense, Nella often asked me, tenderly: “Why are you crying? Why are you crying?” Then she would hold me tightly in her child-like arms, pressing my face against her soft, womanly breast. After a long pause, when she felt she had consoled me, she would turn around and press her hips against my groin; I would encircle her waist with one arm and
her chest with the other, and penetrate her slowly in the dark. I remained inside of her, pacified, and fell asleep. We stayed there like this, locked in an embrace, until morning.

I have described in detail a day in my life in order to paint a picture of my daily existence at the time; every day was the same, and this monotony was one of the reasons for my unhappiness and my dissatisfaction. As I have mentioned, at the time I was waiting for something to change, even, if necessary, for the worse, but I did not know what, and I had the vague suspicion that nothing would change if I did not decide to take action. But why and how was I supposed to act? I did not have the answer, and so I waited. As I said before, my sense of expectation gave me a false impression of my life and hid its true, positive reality: Nella, my love for her, her love for me. I was fascinated by the mirage of a remote oasis where I would finally be able to drink from a bubbling but as yet unreal spring, and I did not realize that I was already standing in a corner of this oasis, with palm trees all around, surrounded by cool shade and with a spring at my feet, full of limpid, cool water.

I had forgotten about Maurizio, or rather I never thought about him explicitly, but in the deepest corner of my consciousness I knew that our paths would cross sometime in the future and that the silent battle we had been fighting since childhood would continue.
This certainty had become almost an unconfessed desire: the truth was that I wanted him to reappear and for our battle to resume. I felt that my membership in the Communist Party, which had been triggered mostly by feelings of inferiority, would reveal its

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true meaning only when I had achieved victory over Maurizio, or at least engaged in a confrontation with him. As I’ve said, I still felt impotent, mortified, aimless, and uncentered, despite my Party membership. And I had a sneaking feeling that this impotence, mortification, aimlessness, and uncenteredness would be dispelled if I found someone or something to fight against. In theory, this was true, and perhaps not only in theory. Even those who, like me, were not activists and whose political activities were limited to joining up and socializing with other Party members, even we imagined a world in which the conflict between Communist ideals and the various forces that opposed them was a question of life or death. But we do not live on ideals alone; in any case, I could not do so. I felt that this struggle must become something personal and compelling, something direct and specific, in order to be truly transformative and constructive. I also felt, for some reason, that Maurizio embodied everything I was struggling against in this dark, challenging moment we were living. Perhaps it was my own strange and very human rivalry with Maurizio that led me to believe this. We will never know what comes first, the idea or the human impulse; this question does not intrigue me. I felt the struggle to be real, powerfully so, and that was enough for me.

I did not seek him out. For some reason, I was sure that he would reappear, in the way that certain
profound, important things in our life often do, at regular intervals. What was the basis for my certainty? The equally unspoken, hidden knowledge that without Maurizio I did not fully exist, that he was my other, negative and baleful half, without which everything that I considered positive and good for humanity could not exist, neither in myself nor in the world.

One evening after dinner Nella and I went out to a

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café where we usually met with our friends to engage in the same discussions until past midnight, night after night. But for some reason on that particular evening the café was empty; our friends had apparently made other plans. We stopped at two or three other cafés in the neighborhood, but they too were empty. I was in an especially surly mood—I can’t remember why—and Nella, who tended to react to my ill humor with tenderness and caresses, was getting on my nerves. Finally we sat down at a café with a few iron tables and chairs, illuminated with tubes of blinding neon light. We were the only people there. It was a small room with high ceilings, a dirty floor, and empty tables. After a mediocre coffee, I began to pick on Nella, as usual. The point of departure was always the same: for one reason or another, I would start talking about politics and the Communist Party, and my conviction that the Party would soon come to power. But instead of reacting enthusiastically to my revolutionary dreams, Nella received them, as usual, with innocent, uninformed indifference. I had convinced myself that a revolution was imminent. In my state of befuddlement, mortification, and impotence, this idea was the one source of light I could see for the country as well as for my own personal
existence. It was practically impossible for me to accept that my conviction and sincere, almost mystical hope for change, inspired by my resentment toward the political leadership that had brought Fascism to power and forced Italy into war and catastrophe, was not shared by Nella. My noble ideals sailed right over her head, like a cannon shooting into the air. She, on the other hand, attached herself tenaciously to the only real thing that existed between us, our love, and, as was becoming increasingly clear, she could see nothing beyond this love. I tried to explain to her, with abundant ideological, psychological, moral, and political arguments, why revolution was inevitable and desirable, but I could see that she was distracted. Her attention was focused only on me, no matter what I said. If I had been discussing idle gossip rather than pouring out fervent arguments for revolution, it would have been exactly the same to her. I

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could sense her lack of interest in the way she nodded, saying “yes, yes,” as one does to a child whom one loves and has no intention of contradicting. She did little things that revealed what really mattered to her at that moment: loving me, being close to me, living with me. As she assented to my arguments, she would take my hand and kiss it, still pretending to listen. Or she would gently provoke me by pressing her leg against mine, seeking a more intimate, distracting contact. I would exclaim: “You don’t care about what I’m saying.” To which she would answer, with almost mystical abandon: “I always agree with you, no matter what you say.” This irritated me even more. “Come on, Nella, what if I’m wrong? You have to contradict me if you disagree.” She would confess,
humbly, “You are so much more intelligent than I am … of course you’re right.” “So you agree that the revolution is coming?” “Of course, if you think it is,” she would say, taking my hand and kissing it passionately. “Don’t kiss me … Why don’t you think for a moment?” “I’m sure it will come … and no matter what happens, I’ll always be beside you, always … I’ll never leave you.” “But that’s not the point!” I would finally exclaim, exasperated. “You have to reason, use your brain, think!” “I do, I think I love you.” “You’re an idiot, a stupid, silly thing,” I would say, brutally detaching my hand and pushing her away, “you’re nothing but a piece of meat, a sex, a being without dignity, without autonomy, without freedom.” “Don’t be angry with me,” she would implore; “why are you so cruel to me?” These last words were said in a strange, cloying voice tinged with surprise. Even now that we are no longer together, I can still hear her: “Why are you so cruel to me?”

I remember that on that evening, as I was explaining for the hundredth time why I believed that a revolution was imminent, she took my hand and began to press it against her cheek, kissing my palm passionately from time to time and gazing up at me from beneath her red mane with her big brown eyes, full of love and admiration. It was clear that the emptiness of that little room excited her and awakened in her a desire to make love in some dark corner, just steps from the door. What irritated me even more was that I too was becoming excited at her touch and was beginning

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to have trouble following my own complicated reasoning. Suddenly filled with fervor, I asked: “Don’t you agree?” She pressed my hand and put
her face close to mine, saying, “To me, you’re always right … but now, kiss me …” Earlier, I described Nella as timid and passive, discreet, and extremely demure. But when it came to love she was brazen and quite unashamed, though her manner remained innocent and awkward. I must admit that these were the qualities I most admired in her, and which excited me the most. But at that moment, after the effort I had put into explaining my ideas to her, her insistent talk of love and kisses filled me with rage. “Enough!” I said, in a loud, trembling voice. “I try to talk to you and all you do is rub against me … Leave me alone … You’re like an animal … Leave me alone!” She held my hand tightly and, not paying attention to my furious words, pulled me very close, offering her lips. At the same time, she slipped one leg on top of mine, almost climbing on my lap, revealing one knee and part of her thigh. As I pulled away, I slapped her, brutally giving release to the discontent I had felt on that and many other evenings. She stared at me in surprise, still holding my hand. Finally she let go, wide-eyed, but still rested her leg on mine. Two enormous tears appeared, filling her eyes and pouring down her cheeks. Now furious at myself for my brutal, stupid action, I tapped the plate with my spoon and called the waiter. Nella pulled away her leg but continued to cry quietly without drying her tears, sitting still and straight with her eyes wide open. After paying the astonished waiter I got up as if to leave. “I think it’s best if we go to bed,” I said curtly. She followed me in silence, still crying.

As we walked out into the narrow street, just a few steps from our door, a slow-moving car almost hit us,
and we were forced to step aside and press our backs against one of the buildings. As the car rolled by I turned to protest, still furious from the scene in the café, and the car came to a stop. It was a large model, old-fashioned but quite luxurious. A figure leaned out of the window. I heard a surprised voice: “Sergio, is that you?”

I was still so angry that I found myself at a loss for

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words. I stared in the direction of the voice; a man leaned his head out of the car but I didn’t recognize him and could barely make out his face. “Don’t you recognize me? It’s Maurizio,” he said, and suddenly, like a shipwreck victim who finally catches sight of a ship on the horizon after staring into an empty, pitiless sea, I called out, “Maurizio!” I don’t know if I felt happiness or relief, or something even more profound. In any case, my reaction was involuntary and automatic.

“Finally!” Maurizio said, in a tone that was already less intimate and bore a trace of irony. He opened the car door, saying, “Get in, get in … I haven’t seen you in ages! Get in, we’ll talk.”

“I’m not alone,” I said, not moving.

Maurizio answered calmly: “I can see that … Well, why don’t you both get in?”

I took a step as if to get into the car. But Maurizio’s voice, now completely sarcastic, stopped me in my tracks: “I see you haven’t changed … head still in the clouds … Why don’t you introduce us?”

I thought to myself: “Here we go, right from the start, putting me in my place and making me feel inferior. He can go to hell.” I gave Nella a little push and said: “Nella, this is Maurizio.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Maurizio said, taking Nella’s hand. Timidly, she mumbled a few words. “Here, climb in next to me,” Maurizio said, pointing to the front seat, “there’s enough space for all of us.” Without a word, Nella climbed in next to him and I followed. Maurizio shut the door and we set off.

Maurizio drove a short distance without saying a word. Nella was sitting next to him in an embarrassed, almost fearful position, pressed against my side, as if afraid that he might touch her. I had placed my arm on the headrest and could almost touch Maurizio’s neck. As we turned onto a larger, more brightly illuminated street, I glanced over at him, scanning his profile as he drove. I hadn’t seen him in four years, but at first he did not seem changed. His face was still pale and perfectly smooth beneath his dark hair, which was not exactly curly but, just as

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I remembered, had a slight undulation and a kind of liveliness, falling in long, graceful waves at his temples and on the nape of his neck. His eyes were black, deeply set and slightly hollow, and there was a look of concentration and sharpness about him, oblique and fierce, like a predatory bird. But something had changed: his mouth, which I remembered as having a particular, almost contemptuous, even slightly cruel expression, was now partly hidden by a short mustache that almost completely covered his upper lip. There was something slightly unreal about it; in my mind I continued to see Maurizio’s mouth as I remembered it, without the mustache, and the two images did not quite coincide; instead, they seemed superimposed. It was almost as if he were wearing a mask which I could see, while still remembering
his real face underneath. The dimple in his willful, shapely chin seemed to underscore his domineering, obstinate nature. As if sensing my gaze with his highly developed awareness, he was silent and still as I watched him. As soon as my curiosity was satisfied and I turned away, he began to speak. “Let’s go to the Gianicolo,” he said; “it’s a beautiful night … We can talk in peace … unless the
signorina
would rather go to a café …”

The car turned off of the Corso and sped down Via del Plebiscito toward Largo Argentina. It was still early and the streets were illuminated and full of cars. The car turned onto Via Merulana; we crossed the Ponte Garibaldi and took the Viale del Re. “You keep staring at me … do I look so different?” he asked.

Somewhat disconcerted, I said: “Not at all … except for the mustache.”

“Left over from the war … I had a beard when I was with the
partigiani.
”