Two Friends (23 page)

We were poor, so poor that after paying the rent

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or buying something to wear there was practically nothing left over for food. No matter how hard Nella looked for work as a typist, she found nothing, and I had to support both of us with the scarce income from my obscure journalistic efforts. In those tumultuous, miserable years, newspapers popped up and disappeared like mushrooms after the rain and I went from one publication to the next, always searching for work, indifferent to political affiliations. The deep
division between the Communists and other political groups had not yet taken hold. I performed the most diverse tasks, from writing for the crime pages to correcting proofs or, most often, writing film reviews. I became the movie critic for a morning daily, which meant that I had to stay up late into the night writing reviews after a premiere. My life became more ordered, though this regularity felt false and unwelcome because I did not love my work and considered it merely temporary. But temporary in comparison to what? This was a question I could not answer; I did not realize at the time that my feeling of transience was an extension of my intellectual nature. And my work was not the only thing I considered temporary; so too my living conditions, my daily routine, and, more than anything, my relationship with Nella. The only thing that felt definitive was my Party affiliation, which was merely symbolic after all and had caused no real change in my life or even altered my manner of thinking or my anxieties in any way. I had expected more, perhaps a kind of complete renewal, but was forced to accept that everything had remained the same and, furthermore, seemed inalterable. This idea disillusioned and tormented me. I told myself that sooner or later I would have to do something to prove that I had become a real Communist, not only by affiliation, but also in spirit. But what? I had no answer,

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at least for the moment.

I said earlier that this was a difficult period in my life, but in truth it was probably the happiest time I had known up to that point. As is often the case I was quite unconscious of my happiness. In fact, I considered myself to be deeply unhappy. Now, with the
benefit of hindsight, I can say that I was mistaken, and can even describe the source of my happiness, a happiness I have never felt since that period. Principally, it was a product of the very poverty that afflicted me, of the challenges in my daily life and the bitterness of my struggle. My happiness consisted in being in touch with myself, bound to myself in the way that soldiers are bound to one another in battle. Solidarity exists not only between two different people, but also within oneself. Well, in those days, I felt in full solidarity with myself. I was in touch with the essential and most intimate part of my being, the part that life, fortune, and comfort tend to lead us away from until we lose awareness of it completely. I lacked purpose and hoped that this purpose would be provided sooner or later by the Party and that one day, when I could clearly grasp the purpose of my life, I would find happiness. I didn’t realize that, quite to the contrary, the purpose of life is to be close to oneself, united and in touch with the truth about oneself, and that even the Party, with all its means, could not provide me, or anyone else for that matter, with another purpose than that. Accidentally, I had already attained my aim in life, but I did not know it.

My happiness, which I have only recently become aware of, had another, less inward source. It was also derived from my relations with Nella, relations which from the beginning had been tinged with contempt. My contempt for Nella’s clumsy and submissive nature not only impeded me from seeing her many qualities, but also inhibited me from understanding that we were actually very close, that we loved each other. Alas, man spends his life chasing shadows;

like the dog in the fable, we often drop a slab of meat already in our possession in order to chase its reflection. My first encounter with Nella at the offices of the Allied radio service had been a rare occurrence: a complete and instant physical understanding, but I was unable to see this and instead considered it a

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vulgar, easy encounter which under different circumstances would have had no consequence. Our relations continued in the same manner, but I insisted on seeing them as a kind of mortifying, disheartening situation to which I submitted out of weakness and which I hoped to liberate myself from at the earliest opportunity. My wrongheadedness blinded me to the true nature of our relations, which in fact grew out of a pure and healthy love, so seldom experienced in life, and the synonym of happiness.

Our life was monotonous and I remember that this monotony also tormented me. I dreamed of a more varied existence. Later, I realized that boredom and routine constitute the solid, regular backdrop upon which we embroider our actions. We lived in a large, squalid furnished room looking out over a dingy alley in the old quarter. I was always the first to get up in the morning and after washing and dressing as best I could, I would sit down at a table in front of the window, with my back to the room. There, I would work on various translations, mostly from English, boring, ill-paid work with which I rounded out my small income as a film critic. Nella stayed in bed; she needed many hours of sleep and it was not unusual for her to sleep through the morning. I worked in silence, with the book on one side, the typewriter in front, and the dictionary on the other side. The room was quiet and
Nella slept. With the windows closed I could barely hear the street noise—voices from a nearby market, a few cars, the sputter of a motorbike. I worked without pleasure, with a feeling of impermanence and an exaggerated disgust for this impermanence. I worked, I reflected angrily,
just to get by
. In the late morning I would finally hear Nella’s sleepy voice wishing me a good morning, and I would answer her casually, without bothering to turn around. I kept working as I heard her rise from the bed, yawn—I imagined she was stretching—and walk around the room picking up clothes, brush her hair in front of the mirror, step out of the room to the bathroom, and return. Finally, I would see a bare arm reaching around my shoulders and her loving eyes would appear, sparkling and

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tender, beneath a mane of messy hair. She offered me her lips, saying “You haven’t kissed me yet today.” I kissed her and with that my morning would come to an end, because one kiss would lead to another and another until finally, almost despite myself and not without a certain sense of annoyance, I ended up back on the bed with her. Nella was always willing to make love, at any time of day; but the morning, after she had taken a shower and was still fresh from the soap and water, her body vigorous after ten hours of sleep, was perhaps her favorite. Her childlike face still free of lipstick or powder, her hair still frizzy from vigorous brushing, her naked body solid, muscular, smooth, and clean, she made love with a strong appetite, as if eating a piece of freshly baked bread. Despite the stuffiness of the room and the threadbare, ugly furniture and messy sheets, her cool, healthy body reminded me of the countryside, touched by the
spring sun, leaves covered with dew, earth still moist, bathed in the fragrance of stonecrop and mushrooms. We made love for a long time on the cold, messy bed, and then Nella returned to the bathroom, followed by me, after which we usually went out for lunch.

As I’ve said, I had very little money and was terribly conscious of my poverty. In fact, I was almost obsessed by it. Walking next to Nella I could not help but notice how shabby she looked. She wore little faded blouses like a child, with sweat stains under the arms, and flimsy skirts, deformed and worn-out with use; her stockings had long runs in them like scars, mended with needle and thread. Her shoes were ragged, with worn-out heels that tilted inward or outward. Nella seldom complained, but when she did, it was with a painful intensity that carried the echoes of endless sacrifice. Sometimes I caught a glimpse of her standing in front of a shop window in dreamy silence, gazing at a blouse, a handkerchief, or a skirt. It pained me to see her so poorly dressed, but at the same time it annoyed me slightly when she complained or drew attention to the state of her wardrobe. I was even more disheveled than she; women have a mysterious talent for making clothes look presentable. My trousers were always shapeless and frayed, my jackets had grease spots, and my shirts were filthy and covered in stains. It was just

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after the war and clothes were hard to come by. I did not have an overcoat; instead I wore several sweaters under a dirty raincoat. Nella had her threadbare little coat. Whenever we passed an elegant shop window and I caught a glimpse of our reflection in the glass, I thought, “There go a couple of bums.”

My lack of funds was a constant torment, like a thorn in my flesh that I could not dig out. When we went out to eat, it became a cruel nuisance, not so much because I wanted to spend more, but because it forced me to make humiliating choices: If Nella ordered this or that item, would I be able to order fruit? Could we afford two main dishes? I must say that Nella always tried to spend as little as possible. But her restraint also felt like a complaint or a reproach. It would almost have been a relief to have her order what she really wanted instead of worrying about whether I would be able to pay.

We ate at very modest trattorias, frequented by other people like us—in other words, to use the term I detest, intellectuals, as well as factory workers and lowly office employees. As we sat across from each other at a table lined with paper, with worn-out cutlery and simple earthenware dishes, Nella would smile at me tenderly and happily, holding my hand in hers. I could sense that she knew how to fully enjoy the good moments in life, as well as how to forget life’s challenges and the larger questions that make us suffer deprivation even more intensely. I envied her and told myself that I should try to imitate her, but I simply couldn’t. I could always feel something hard, painful, irremovable coming between me and happiness: lack of money, or the Party and my lack of purpose, or the fact that Nella did not understand me and never would, beyond the basic level of love and tenderness. I sulked in silence, scowling, unresponsive to her touch, irritated with myself and with her. She would ask what was wrong, why I was so preoccupied, and I would give vague, insincere answers,
mumbling something about work, or being tired, or anything else that came to mind. She believed me, or pretended to, realizing perhaps that she would not be

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able to penetrate the real reasons for my ill humor. Then the waiter would bring our food and we would eat in silence.

After lunch we would walk home slowly down the narrow, ancient streets of central Rome. She threw herself on the bed and I lay down beside her. We slept in each other’s arms, Nella relaxed as always, and I, as usual, beset by the nagging sense that such intimacy was a betrayal of my true self and my goals. But who was I, and what were these goals? At the time I did not know, and even now I could never admit it openly, but my main goal consisted simply of rejecting the present, including my love for Nella, and my fixation with underlining the impermanent, incidental nature of my circumstances. I never let myself go completely; even in moments of abandon, a part of me kept its distance, observing the scene, holding back. This constant effort, the irrepressible impulse not to give myself to Nella in the way that she gave herself to me, was so clear that even she, so blinded by her love, eventually noticed. “Why can’t you just love me as I love you? You don’t want to love me, that’s the truth … You can’t let yourself go.” I would assure her it wasn’t true, but I knew I was lying. She would sigh with resignation and almost a kind of foreboding: “One day you’ll realize that you’ve ruined everything … but it will be too late.”

Later I would get up and return to my table, to my translation work. Nella would stay in bed a bit longer, dozing, or pick up a book and read, resting on one
elbow. Every so often she would stop and say something, as if to reassure herself that I hadn’t forgotten her. It was difficult for her to resist coming over to kiss or caress me. After a while she could no longer hold back; she would come up behind me and ask: “Haven’t you finished yet?” in a sulky, unhappy voice. Or she would tiptoe up and kiss me hard, making my ear buzz for the next five minutes. “Don’t you know that you have to leave me in peace when I’m working?” I would say, roughly. “I’m sorry,” she would say, humbly, “but I couldn’t resist.” Then she would climb

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back onto the bed and read while I continued with my work. Later, she would get up and begin to carefully prepare her toilette. Finally, when her patience had run out, she would say, “I’m going down to the café,” and disappear. I breathed a sigh of relief—somewhat insincere, I knew—and worked for another half hour. Then I too went out.

I would meet her at the café, a squalid little back room at a neighborhood spot. Sometimes she would be there alone, sitting in front of an espresso, more often she was joined by friends and acquaintances, intellectuals and their girlfriends. They passed the time discussing, debating, and commenting on the day’s events, until dinnertime. In the evening at the trattoria, I felt the same anxiety and ill humor as I had earlier at lunchtime. We did not eat much in the evening, and sometimes we skipped dinner altogether and ate sandwiches and beer at the bar on our street. When I had money, Nella accompanied me to the movies, otherwise she would go home and I would go to the movies alone. I sat and watched the film with a growing sense of futility, frustration, and irritation: nine
times out of ten the movie was a worthless waste of time. Even so, I had to write a review, if only to point out its shortcomings. I would run to the newspaper offices and quickly scribble a review on any available surface. Then I went home, where I would find Nella half-asleep on the bed with her thick mane of hair spread out over the pillow and her slender shoulders. I undressed quickly and climbed under the covers, and she immediately turned over and pressed herself against me with all the strength of her youthful, fresh body. That was the moment when I loved her the most, or rather gave myself most fully to my love. I was tired, worn out, disgusted with myself, more uncertain than ever about my future, and sickened by my work. These embraces were like a refuge and a consolation after an absurd, hopeless day. In the dark, I encircled her tightly in my arms, dug my face into the firm, feverish tenderness of her breasts; I bit her and caressed her with a feeling of sweetness mixed with rage. It felt as if by embracing her I became a child again and found a lingering trace of maternal consolation in her trembling, exposed flesh. Sometimes as I embraced her my eyes welled up with tears; I was thankful that the darkness concealed my weakness. With those tears I expressed the