The Woman of Rome (8 page)

The date of the wedding had been set, and I immediately began to concentrate on my preparations. I decided with Gino that at first we would go to live with my mother. In addition to the living room, kitchen, and bedroom, there was a fourth room in the apartment, which my mother had never furnished for lack of money. We kept useless, broken junk in it; and you can imagine what useless, broken junk was in a house like ours where everything seemed useless and broken. After discussing the matter endlessly, we fixed our minimum requirements — we would furnish this one room and I would make myself something of a trousseau. Mother and I were very poor; but I knew she had saved something and that she had scraped and saved for me, in order to be prepared, as she said, for any eventuality. What exactly this eventuality was supposed to be was never quite clear, but it was certainly not my marriage to a poor man with an unsettled future.

I went to Mother and said to her, “That money you’ve set aside is for me, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Very well then, if you want me to be happy, give it to me now to furnish the room where Gino and I can live — if you’ve really saved it for me, now is the time to spend it.”

I expected argument, discussion, and in the end a blunt refusal. But instead, Mother welcomed the suggestion eagerly, showing once more the same sardonic calm that had so disconcerted me the evening after I had been to the villa with Gino.

“And he’s giving nothing?” was all she asked.

“Of course he is,” I lied. “He’s already said so — but I must give something too.”

She was sewing by the window and had stopped her work in order to talk to me. “Go into my room,” she said. “Open the top drawer in the bureau, where you’ll find a cardboard box. My savings book is in it and also my bits of gold — take both the book and the gold — you can have them.”

The bits of gold did not amount to much — a ring, two earrings, a little chain. But ever since I was a baby, that little treasure, concealed among rags and only glimpsed in extraordinary circumstances, had aroused my imagination. Impulsively I hugged Mother. She pushed me away, not roughly but coldly, saying, “Mind — I’ve got a needle — you’ll prick yourself.”

But I was not content. It was not enough to have got what I wanted and even more; I also wanted Mother to share my happiness. “Mother,” I said, “if you’re only doing it to please me, I don’t want it.”

“Of course I’m not doing it to please him,” she replied, taking up her sewing again.

“You don’t really believe I’ll marry Gino, do you?” I asked her tenderly.

“I’ve never believed it, and today less than ever.”

“Then why are you giving me the money to do the room up?”

“That’s not throwing money away. You’ll always have the furniture and linen — money or goods, it’s the same thing.”

“Won’t you come round the shops with me and choose the things?”

“Good Lord!” she shouted, “I don’t want to have anything to do with it at all. Do what you like, go where you like, choose what you like — I don’t want to know anything.”

She was quite unapproachable on the question of my marriage; and I realized that her unreasonableness was not due so much to her idea of Gino’s character, ways, and means, as to her own way of looking at life. So there was a kind of silent wager on between Mother and me — she wanted my marriage to fall through and me to become convinced of the excellence of her own plans, and I wanted the marriage to go on and Mother to be persuaded that my way of looking at things was right. I therefore clung even more ardently to the hope of being married; it was as though I were gambling my whole life desperately on a single card. I was bitterly conscious all the time that Mother was watching my efforts and hoping to herself that they would fail.

I must mention here that Gino’s model behavior never broke down, not even during the preparations for our wedding. I had told Mother that Gino had given me something toward the expenses; but I had lied, because until then he had never hinted at such a thing. I was surprised and at the same time exaggeratedly delighted when Gino, without my asking him, offered me a small sum of money to help me out. He apologized for the smallness of the sum by saying that he could not give more because he often had to send money home. Today, when I think back on his offer, I can find no other explanation of it than that he gloried in being meticulously faithful to the part he had decided to play. Perhaps this faithfulness had its origin in his remorse at having deceived me and his regret at not being in the position to marry me, as he really wanted to at that time. I hastened triumphantly to tell Mother of Gino’s offer. She contented herself with saying how small it was — not so little as to make him look cheap, but just enough to throw dust in my eyes.

I was very happy during this period of my life. I used to meet Gino every day and we made love wherever we could — on the
back seat of the car, or standing up in a dark corner in some deserted street, or in a field in the country, or at the villa again in Gino’s room. One night when he took me home, we made love in the dark on the landing outside my front door, lying on the floor. Another time we made love at the movies, huddled together at the back right underneath the projection room. I liked joining the crowds in the streetcars and public places with him beside me, because people pushed me up against him and I took advantage of this to press my body to his. The whole time I wanted to squeeze his hand or ruffle his hair or caress him in some way, anywhere, even when others were present, and I almost tricked myself into believing it would not be noticed, as we always do when we give way to some irresistible passion. The act of love delighted me, perhaps I loved love itself even more than I did Gino, for I felt myself impelled to it, not only by my feelings for Gino, but also by the pleasure I derived from it. Of course, I did not imagine I could have had the same pleasure from any other man but Gino. But I realized in a dim way that the ardor, the skill, the passion I put into my caresses were not to be accounted for merely by the fact that we were in love. They had a character of their own, as if I had a gift for lovemaking that even without Gino would have shown itself sooner or later.

But the idea of my marriage took first place. In order to save money, I helped Mother all I could and often stayed up late. By day, if I was not posing in the studios, I went round the shops with Gino to choose our furniture and the material for my trousseau. I had little to spend and, for this very reason, I looked about all the more carefully. I even made them bring out things I knew I could not buy, and turned them over at my leisure, discussing their value and haggling over the price; afterward I assumed a dissatisfied air or promised I would return, then left the shop without having purchased anything. I did not realize it, but these frantic expeditions to the shops, this exhausting handling of goods I could not afford, brought home to me the truth of what Mother had said — that there was little happiness to be had without money. This was the first time, after my visit to the villa,
that I had a paradise of wealth, and since I felt excluded from it through no fault of my own, I could not help being rather embittered and upset. But I tried through lovemaking to forget this injustice, as I had done at the villa. Love was my only luxury, it alone made me feel I was the equal of many other women richer and more fortunate than I.

At last, after much discussion and research, I decided on my extremely modest purchases; and I bought a suite of furniture in modern style, on the installment plan because I had not enough money to pay for it outright — there was a double bed, a chest of drawers with a mirror, bedside tables, chairs, and a wardrobe. It was common stuff, cheap and roughly made, but no one would believe the passion I felt immediately for these few sticks of furniture. I had had the walls of the room whitewashed, the doors and windowpanes varnished, the floor scraped, so that our room was a kind of island of cleanliness in the filthy sea surrounding us.

The day the furniture came was certainly the happiest in my life. I could hardly believe that a clean, tidy, light room like that, smelling of whitewash and varnish, was my very own; and this incredulity was mixed with an endless feeling of satisfaction. Sometimes when I was sure Mother was not watching, I went into my room, sat down on the bare mattress and stayed there for hours looking around me. Still as a statue, I gazed on my new possessions as if I were unable to believe they were real and was afraid they might vanish into thin air at any moment, leaving the room empty. Or else I got up and lovingly dusted them and heightened their polish. I think that if I had really let myself give way to my feelings, I would have kissed them. The curtainless window looked down onto a huge, dirty courtyard of a prison or hospital, but entranced as I was, I no longer paid any attention to it; I felt as happy as if the room looked out on a beautiful garden filled with trees. I imagined the life Gino and I would lead there — how we would sleep, make love. I had in mind other things I intended to buy as soon as I could — a vase, a lamp, an ashtray, or some other ornament over in the corner. My only regret was that I could not
have a bathroom like the one I had seen at the villa, with shining white tiles and faucets, or at least a new, clean one. I was determined to keep my room extremely neat and clean. The visit to the villa had convinced me that a luxurious life began with order and cleanliness.

4

S
OMEWHERE ABOUT THIS TIME
, while I was still continuing to pose in the studios, I struck up a friendship with another model called Gisella. She was a tall, well-made girl, with a very white skin, dark curly hair, small, deepset blue eyes, and a large red mouth. Her character was quite the opposite of mine. She was quick-tempered, sharp, and spiteful, and at the same time practical and self-seeking; perhaps it took these very differences to unite us in friendship. I knew of no other work she had besides that of being a model, but she dressed far better than I could, and did not conceal the fact that she received presents and money from a man she introduced as her fiancé. I remember how I envied her black jacket with collar and cuffs of astrakhan that she often wore that winter. Her fiancé’s name was Riccardo; he was a tall, placid, heavily built young man, with a face as smooth as an egg, which I thought very handsome at the time. He was always sleek and shining, smothered in brilliantine, and wore new suits; his father kept a shop for men’s underwear and ties. He was simple to the
point of silliness, good-natured, cheerful, and probably quite decent. He and Gisella were lovers, and I do not think there was any talk of marriage between them, as there was between Gino and me. But Gisella, like me, aimed at marriage, without setting too many hopes on it. As for Riccardo, I am sure the idea of marrying Gisella never crossed his mind.

Gisella, who was very stupid but far more experienced than I, had determined that she was going to look after me and set me straight about many things. In short, she had the same ideas as Mother about life and happiness. However, in Mother’s case, these ideas were expressed in a bitter and quarrelsome way, since they were the fruit of her disappointment and hardships, whereas, in Gisella’s case, they sprang from her obtuseness, allied with her stubborn self-sufficiency. Mother was content simply to formulate her ideas, you might say, as if the statement of her principles mattered more to her than the application of them; but Gisella, who had always thought in that way and did not even dream that anyone might think differently, was astonished that I did not behave as she did. Only when I showed my disapproval, because I really could not help myself, did her astonishment give way to rage and jealousy. She suddenly discovered that I not only refused her protection and advice, but that I might even be inclined to criticize her from the height of my own cherished and disinterested aspirations, and it was then that she planned, perhaps unconsciously, to alter my judgment of her by forcing me to become like herself as quickly as possible. Meanwhile she kept on telling me that I was a fool to keep myself pure; that it was a shame to see me going around so badly dressed, living such a hard life, and that, if I wanted to, thanks to my good looks, I could completely change my whole position. At last I told her of my relationship with Gino, because I felt ashamed to have her think I knew nothing about men, but I warned her that we were engaged and were getting married shortly. She immediately asked me what Gino did and, on hearing that he was a chauffeur, she grimaced. But she asked me, nevertheless, to introduce him to her.

Gisella was my best friend and Gino my fiancé: today I am able to judge them dispassionately, but at the time I was quite blind
to their real characters. I have already said that I thought Gino was perfect: perhaps I realized that Gisella had some faults, but to offset them I believed she was warmhearted and very fond of me, and I attributed her anxiety for my future not to her spite at knowing I was innocent and her desire to corrupt me, but to an ill-advised and mistaken goodness. And so I introduced them to one another in some trepidation. In my naïveté, I hoped they would be friends. The meeting took place in a café. Gisella maintained a guarded silence the whole time and was obviously hostile. In the beginning it looked to me as though Gino was putting himself out to charm Gisella, because as usual he began to talk expansively, dwelling on his employers’ wealth, as if he hoped to dazzle her with these descriptions and hide the poverty of his own existence. But Gisella refused to unbend and maintained her hostile attitude. Then she remarked, I don’t quite remember in what connection, “You’re lucky to have found Adriana.”

“Why?” asked Gino in astonishment.

“Because chauffeurs usually go out with servant girls.”

I saw Gino change color, but he was not one to be taken by surprise. “You’re quite right,” he replied slowly, lowering his voice with the air of someone considering an obvious fact he had overlooked until that moment. “In fact, the chauffeur before me married the cook — naturally, why not? I ought to have done the same. Chauffeurs marry maids and maids marry chauffeurs. Why on Earth didn’t it occur to me before? Still,” he added carelessly, “I’d have preferred Adriana to be a maid rather than a model. I don’t mean,” he added, raising his hand as if to ward off any objection Gisella might make, “I don’t mean because of the profession itself — although to tell you the truth, I can’t swallow this matter of getting undressed in front of men — but chiefly because being in that profession she’s obliged to make certain acquaintances, friends who —” he shook his head and made a face. Then, offering her a pack of cigarettes, “Do you smoke?” he asked her.