The Girl on the Via Flaminia (10 page)

 

 

S
o that, unforeseen, because it was not possible to foresee this, or anything like this, not having thought when he came across the Ponte Milvio that anything except the simple thing, the bare exchange, would happen, Robert heard the carabinieri go, the closing of the door, and then the door opening again. And Antonio, glancing backward, came into the house. The boy came toward the bedroom.

“Mamma,” he said to Adele, “what did the police want here?” He was frowning. He must be cold in that raincoat, Robert thought: the two of them wearing raincoats, they must both be cold in them. But he must sleep in it. He sleeps in the raincoat and he stands in front of the mirror combing his hair to a point on the nape of his neck. “Mamma,” Antonio said again, when Adele did not answer him, “what did the police want here?”

Or anywhere, Robert thought; what did they want anywhere? Around the stone bases of the bridges sometimes, leaning over, you saw the water swirling, caught there, a furious wrinkling, and what was caught in the water, in the passage of the water down to wherever the Tiber emptied, swirled with it, helplessly: broken branches, the discarded souvenirs of love, fruit rinds, whirling there, involved in the life of the river. And it was deep, he remembered: though it was a narrow river, it was deceptively deep. The Englishman shuffled uncomfortably. “Well, I better shove off.” He wants to get out, Robert thought: it's gotten too deep for him too. He's swirling in it. “Come on, Mimi: show us the door.”

“Sì, sergente,” the little girl said.

“Bloody party it turned out.”

They went away. And I can't, he thought: not now. Though why? What keeps me? What's there to really keep me if I went out the way he went, just out of the door, back across the bridge: that's the way I came, that's the way I can go.

“Che disgrazia,” Ugo said. “To come into one's house . . .”

And she was staring at the slip of paper. There could not possibly have been that much written on it: a name, an address, an hour, a charge. And yet she stared; at that official handwriting, at the penmanship of strangers. Don't, he thought: don't; there's nothing there, you've read all there's there to read; and watched her. They don't understand yet, he thought; they don't know how the water's swirling, carrying us all downstream, and how deep, how cold it must be this time of year, with no sun, the grass withered on the banks, the dead leaves and the broken branches and the dirty rinds of fruit all flowing and being dragged downward. And then she said:

“I'm not going.”

With something in her voice that must have puzzled them, but which they only interpreted as a feeling possibly of shame, of disgrace, of misfortune, and thinking of it like that, all that was necessary they thought was to comfort her, to solace her, to reduce whatever fear she might have.

“But my dear,” Adele said, “one must,” and, of course in her world one had to, a slip of paper from the police being an inexorable summons. He was to remember, later, that moment: how she stood there, with the slip of paper in her hand, and the variety of expressions on the faces of the others; and he had a bad sense of what his own expression must be. Because of the other knowledge which, standing there, he did not permit himself as yet to think of, and which, of course, was determining all the things she must have felt, perhaps even knew now, with a prophetic certainty, from the moment the carabinieri came into the house and knocked on her bedroom door, and stood, in their polished boots, politely asking their questions.

“But, Mamma,” Antonio said, looking at all of them, “what is it? I don't understand.”

So that, finally, he said, with difficulty, trying to control the expression he knew his face must be wearing, “Why must she go?” Adele shrugged.

“It is the police.”

As though that explained everything, the inevitability, the resignation, the point beyond which it was useless to protest.

“To hell with the police,” Robert said.

And the woman, with that knowledge of something he did not yet possess, the knowledge perhaps that had sharpened and brought to that gleam the hard blackness in her old eyes, and set that dry old bitter mouth, said: “But then, they will come here for her.”

“Mamma,” Antonio said, desperately, “I don't understand!”

“No,” Lisa said, again. “I will not go!”

He and Antonio, he thought; neither of them understood. But Adele did; it was all in that previous knowledge. “My dear,” Adele said, patiently, “it is worse not to go.” And he pushed forward, reluctantly, toward that knowledge of hers. “What can they do,” Robert asked, slowly, “if she doesn't go?”

“To you?” Adele said. “Nothing.”

She stands there, Robert thought, like a collection of bad knowledge. Her hair is that dirty gray, she can't sleep at night, she lies there in that bedroom coughing and smoking and sleepless, and the old man reads his newspapers. I never did understand entirely what went on in this house. “You are a soldier,” Adele said. “The soldier is always innocent. But the girl—”

“What happens to the girl?” he asked.

I am waiting for her to tell me, he thought. This is New Year's Eve. They shot their guns off to celebrate it. The mother has dirty gray hair and the old man dribbles cigarette ash on the crotch of his pants and the son combs his hair like that. How do I know who these people are? How do I know what she is? How do I know I'm not being taken?

“What happens to the girl?” he repeated.

He watched Adele. She was the source of knowledge now. She would tighten this vise that enclosed them all. He did not look at Lisa. He was aware of the movement of her hands. How they were twisting, slowly.

“If she does not report to the magistrate,” Adele said, “they will come here and arrest her anyway and take away her identity card . . .”

“So what?” Robert said. “Let them take it away.”

“You are an American,” Adele said, “you do not understand. In Europe, without an identity card, one doesn't exist . . .”

If she would only stop twisting her hands like that.

“But, my dear,” Ugo said, “there is nothing to worry about.”

“No,” Adele said, reassuringly.

“Tomorrow you both go to the questura,” Ugo said. “And in the court you will simply show the magistrate the marriage documents. They will dismiss it. A mistake . . .”

“But I've done nothing,” Lisa said, appealing to them.

“Of course, my dear,” Ugo said. “It's a formality.”

“They always make trouble for the innocent and not for the guilty,” Adele said.

“Mamma,” Antonio said.

“It's nothing,” Adele said. “You must not look so worried. Mistakes happen. Ugo, go make a cup of coffee.”

The old man patted Lisa's arm. He was distressed by the look on the girl's face. So many things happened nowadays. “Control yourself, cara. It's really nothing.”

He went toward the kitchen to prepare the coffee.

Robert heard them. The voices, consoling or explanatory. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps they were, as they seemed, good people. Perhaps she was what she really seemed. One came, through cold streets, seeking a certain warmth. But the simplest things became difficult. He could not look at her face. She will blame me, he thought. She will think I am responsible. Am I?

“Adele,” he said, slowly.

“Yes?”

“What if we aren't married? I mean, what if I can't find the certificate? If I can't prove our marriage?”

There was a perceptible pause and an almost visible change in the woman's face.

“That would be bad,” she said.

“Bad?”

“For Lisa . . .”

“Exactly how bad?” he asked.

“Tomorrow morning she would go to the questura,” Adele said. He listened intently. He watched her thin and old and perhaps unkind mouth. The knowledge was coming to him now. “There she would be questioned. If she cannot prove she is married, or that she works, then she is taken away from the questura in a police truck . . .”

“Where?” Robert said.

“To the hospital for the doctors to examine.”

“Examine?” he said.

“To see if she is sick. And if she is sick, then one goes to San Gallicano.”

“What's San Gallicano?”

“A terrible place, Roberto.”

“And then?”

“If it is the first time, she is given a small sentence. And cured. And then, later, when she is released, she is given a card. The small yellow card . . .”

Lisa whimpered. It was a little, terrified, and sickening sound.

“One gets a card of the professional,” Adele said, looking hard and directly at him. “It is stamped. Officially. And one reports every week. One has to carry it, always. Wherever one goes.”

“But what if she's not sick?” he said, driving himself toward all the knowledge. “What if she's innocent?”

“When the doctors examine them, there are no innocent girls. Sick or healthy, innocent or guilty they are all given a yellow card. You see? It would be very bad, Roberto, if you and Lisa were not married.”

So that he had it all now, all the knowledge necessary, everything that was inevitable for him to know, and the vise was completely tight. In the kitchen the coffee had boiled. He saw Ugo come out of the kitchen, carrying four cups and saucers on a tray. He saw the steam ascend from the coffee cups.

“Adele,” he said, painfully.

“Yes?”

“There aren't any marriage documents.”

Antonio leaned forward. His face was all profile.

“What did he say?” he said to his mother. He was almost hissing. “Mamma, what did he say?”

“None?” Adele asked, not quite believing him.

“None,” Robert said.

“Mamma, what did he say?” Antonio said again.

“They are not married?”

“No,” Adele said, “they are not married.”

The boy turned quickly. His face thrust at Lisa. “It's true, signora? Is this true?”

Lisa shrank away.

“Let her be, Antonio,” Adele said. Ugo stood, holding the tray of steaming coffee.

“Another one!” Antonio cried. “And this one I thought was good! This one I apologized to! This one I praised!”

“Shut up,” Robert said.

“Are none of them honest?” Antonio cried. “None to be trusted?”

“Antonio, she suffers!” Adele said.

“I suffer too!” Antonio cried. “Whores and thieves!”

“Adele,” Robert said, thickly. “Get him out of here.”

“O patria mia!” Antonio cried. “How they dishonor you!” He turned viciously to Lisa. “Did he pay well, the American? Tomorrow you'll see how well they pay!”

“Antonio!” Adele said.

Robert grabbed him. “Get him out of here, Adele, or I'll knock his teeth out!”

Antonio pulled himself free. “Whores and thieves!” he cried. He spit on the floor. Narrow-shouldered, belted into that eternal raincoat, he turned and went down the hallway and out of the house, slamming the door.

Stupidly, his face full of pain and unhappiness, the old man stood with his tray of coffee cups.

“And you,” Adele said to Ugo, “what are you standing there with the coffee for?”

Shaking his head, the old man carried the tray into the bedroom and set it on the table.

Robert stood there. He could feel the sickness inside him. “Adele, what am I going to do?” he said.

“You? She's the one will suffer, not you.”

Lisa moaned. She sat on the edge of the bed.

“Ah, poveretta,” Ugo said.

Robert went and knelt down beside her. He put his arm around her shoulders. The sickness was there inside him. The sickness, and something else. A feeling something had finally happened he had not foreseen, and could not have foreseen. Am I responsible? he thought. He had only come through the darkness seeking warmth. He had not wanted to sleep any longer in a room full of soldiers. He had wanted a girl.

She was shaking with a deeper cold than the coldness of the room. He could feel the shaking of her body.

“I'll go to the questura with you,” he said to her. He pushed the hair back from her face. “I'll go to the questura too. You're my girl. A guy can have a girl in this goddam country, can't he? Adele, I can tell them she's my girl, can't I?”

“Of course.”

“They can't hold her if she's my girl,” he said. “They can't send her to San Gallicano or whatever the name of it is if she's my girl.”

Adele did not answer.

“Can they?” he said.

“They are afraid of the disease in the city,” Adele said.

“In the Piazza Colonna last week they arrested a hundred girls on the street,” Ugo said.

He heard her voice then. It was small, muffled, painful.

“Adele,” she said.

“Yes, dear?”

“Why does he hold me, Adele?” she said to the dark tall woman. “Why does he hold me?”

“Roberto wants to help you,” Adele said.

Her lips were dry and the shaking did not stop.

“He is only holding me for San Gallicano,” she said, sitting there on the edge of the bed, and her body shaking. Her hair fell forward, masking her face.

“He shouldn't hold me,” she said.

“But there is no place to go, my dear,” Adele said.

“There is always a place to go,” Lisa said. “Please, Adele. Tell him not to hold me.”

“No,” Robert said.

She struggled. Sitting on the bed, with her hair fallen forward, she struggled. “I said no,” Robert said. Struggling then, she began to cry. The sound of her crying was painful, too. It was a hopeless kind of crying. He watched her tears. He could feel the illness inside himself. What can I do? he thought. What am I responsible for?

“Idiot!” Adele said. She went to the table. She tasted the coffee. The coffee was cold. Ugo's face was full of an old man's sympathy and misery. “Go warm the coffee,” Adele said.