The Girl on the Via Flaminia (9 page)

 

 

O
nce, near Portofino, when she was seventeen, there had been a water snake under the rock near the edge of the shore. Portofino was very white in the sunlight and very beautiful. It was one of the summers she remembered as a very happy summer. It was just before the war. Lying on the bed now, in the silent room, with the raincoat over her, she thought of the water snake curled under the rock. The snake in the water was a dark green, and the water lifted him, and he floated, dark and green and sinuous. On the blue bay two young men were sculling. Their boat looked so fragile. Their naked shoulders glistened. She watched again in the silence their swift and skillful passage across the soundless water. Then she remembered the stick she had taken, and how with the stick she had thrust and poked at the water snake. The rock was possibly his home. The water his true element. And down from the sunlight came her intrusive stick, disturbing the water and the snake, and driving him from his safety, from the place he had chosen there under the rock, and lying there, not being able to cry, remembering Portofino, how white it was, how beautiful, and how long ago, she regretted and almost pitied the snake she had driven out so long ago in that summer she remembered as being one of the few happy ones.

So it was over, she thought; and now? She had gone to the French that first morning, foolishly, thinking the French were different. There was no difference. She lay, covered by the raincoat, and the small dull faintly anguished thoughts went on in her head. She remembered a picture of herself, in a white dress; it was the summer she was engaged, but then she had not really liked the boy. Now, infinitely distant, there was the portrait, the white dress, the eyes of somebody who had been young. Perhaps she would be able to go back to Genoa; perhaps, in the morning, when she awoke, the war would be over, and then she could go back to Genoa, and see Portofino again, and everything would be in the past: a dream one had had during a very bad time, and in that dream she had done certain things, and waking she would forget them.

She thought: we do finally what we thought we were incapable of doing, and it is less than we thought the doing would be, and at the same time more. And nobody listens, nobody cares, one is alone. There are no drums, no overture, no curtain rising. The audience is cold, or asleep. And yet—could she have? Could she have gone on? No, it was impossible to have gone on. It was only possible if there was love. He was right in saying that love would have made everything excusable. But there was no love. He did not want love. He wanted something else, something that had only the appearance of love, and it was better that it had ended, and tomorrow she would leave the house, and that would be the end. She should not have returned that morning when she went to the Frenchman's hotel. It did not matter that there had been no place for her to go; she would have found a place. Nina was wrong: it was not the same for everyone. For everyone it was different. She could not do it. And her thoughts went on: Portofino, the white dress. Roberto sitting drinking vermouth, tomorrow it would be all over, small, faintly anguished, fading into each other.

Antonio stood in the doorway. “Signora,” he said. “Yes?”

He hesitated. “Are you ill?” He did not try to come into the room. “It is so cold,” Antonio said. She stood up, brushing her hair back with the flat of her hand. He watched her take a comb from her purse.

“I wanted to apologize . . .” he said, hesitatingly. Your husband is an American . . .”

“He was not insulted . . .”

His face darkened. “They are not all bad—but it's hard for me to distinguish. I am always angry. Besides,” he said, “our women . . .” He looked contemptuous. “They are worse than the soldiers. The soldiers have some excuse.”

She sat in the front of the small dressing table, brushing her hair. Her face turned briefly to look at him. She did not say anything.

“At least,” the boy said, “it is possible to respect you. You have not soiled yourself.”

The comb paused.

“One should respect one's countrywomen. Not to feel they are degrading one . . . isn't that true, signora?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I wanted to tell you this,” Antonio said. “Because you are one of the good ones. You make me feel better.”

She looked at him. He was holding something in his hand.

“What is that?”

He glanced down. The Bavarian officer's bullet lay in the palm of his hand. The light touched its flattened copper.

“My souvenir,” he said. “A British one.” And as she looked questioningly at him: “A Bavarian surgeon took it out of me in Tripoli. On Christmas Eve. It's all I have of my war.”

He balanced the ugly pellet on his palm, and she watched, fascinated. “We all have our souvenirs,” she said, turning back to the mirror, brushing her hair. But he did not go.

“I was wrong,” the boy said, standing there in the doorway. “My mother thinks anyone who escapes is lucky—yes. And she's right. Go away, signora—do what they tell you. Go to America . . . at least, there one can stop one's memories. And ask your husband to excuse me.”

“There is nothing to excuse,” she said.

“As for me, who knows?” Antonio said. He smiled again, unpleasantly, in spite of his apologies. “Perhaps I'll turn thief. Stealing is fashionable, too—and with a gun, well, one is a little more equal. One can—yes, steal tires. That's a soldier's profession now—stealing tires and changing their treads. Perhaps I'll steal tires. Or who knows? Go north . . . rediscover my courage . . . and in the hills die with the look of a patriot.” He paused: “Well, buonanotte, signora.”

“Buonanotte, Antonio.”

“And remember: go to America, signora. In the end, one is happiest far away from the scene of one's mistakes . . . or one's sufferings . . . And Europe is only that: a continent of despair.” He went out, with his apologies and his despair and his intenseness, all belted into that raincoat.

In the mirror, she thought that at last the face would either laugh or cry. It must either laugh or cry. It could not stay like this, neither laughing nor crying. He had apologized! He was contrite! He offered her advice! She would laugh. The face must laugh. But she did not laugh nor did she cry. She brushed her hair, carefully, mechanically, over and over, in the mirror.

 

 

 

 

T
hey came into the dining room, shuddering with the cold. Outside, the bells and the guns had ceased. “Show's over,” the English sergeant said. He held Mimi's arm. “It was like a bloody mutiny.” They all came into the room. “Bring us another bottle of vino,” the Englishman said.

Mimi was pleased.

“Tutti i soldati sono pazzi, non è vero, Signora?” she said to Adele.

“Sì, tutti,” Adele said.

Mimi went off for the bottle.

“My gel's almost her age,” the Englishman said, looking after her. “Still has her pigtails down, me missus says. Must be the sun and the vino makes the difference.”

“Are you alone?” Ugo said to Robert. He was sitting at the table with the bottle of cognac.

“Yes.”

“And Lisa?”

“She's tired. She's in the room.”

The bell in the hallway rang; then the door was knocked on, loudly.

“Chi è?” Adele called.

There was a noise of voices in the hallway. There was an angry voice among the voices they could hear. Adele went out of the dining room, quickly, follow by her husband.

“Row, sounds like, doesn't it?” the Englishman said, indifferently.

They came into the dining room then, a curious procession: Adele and Ugo together. There was a soldier, too. The soldier limped slightly. The angry voice was his. There were two Italian carabinieri with him. They wore black polished puttees and they carried slung carbines, and small black holsters with berettas. Above the visors of their hats shone the insignia of the police: a golden sunburst. Behind the carabinieri, Mimi came, her face frightened. Robert looked at all of them as they trooped into the dining room.

The soldier who limped said, “That's her! This is the place. She's the one got me sick.”

He meant Adele.

“Calmo,” one of the carabinieri said. He was the better looking and the more authoritative of the two. He tried to quiet the limping soldier. “It will be taken care of. Which is the one you said telephoned?”

“Her,” the soldier said. “The old bitch.”

“Here now,” the Englishman said, standing by the table. “Take it easy with the names.”

“Signora?” the carabiniere said.

“What does the drunkard want?” Adele said.

She did not look at the soldier who limped. She looked at the handsomer and the more authoritative policeman. Her eyes had a hard sharp blackness. She had crossed her arms across her breast, and a cigarette smoked between her fingers.

“Did you solicit for this American,” the carabiniere said, “a woman named—” He consulted a small black notebook. “Maria Galluzo, who lives on the Viale Angelico 38?”

“I solicit for no one,” Adele said.

“What is it?” Robert said. “What's the matter?”

“Niente,” Adele said. “Do not concern yourself.”

“That's a goddam lie,” the soldier who limped said. “She telephoned. She called that tart up.”

“Did you telephone, signora?” the carabiniere asked, politely. He obviously did not care too much for the limping soldier.

“Yes, I telephoned,” Adele said. “The drunkard whined to me how lonesome he was.”

“He asked her all right,” the Englishman said. “I heard him ask the old lady.”

“Now,” Adele said, “the drunkard comes to my house with accusations.”

“She was sick!” the soldier said.

“So?” Adele said. Now she looked at him, but with enormous contempt. “It was probably another American who made her sick.”

“Did you know, signora, for what purpose you were telephoning?” the carabiniere asked. He was still polite. He held the small black notebook in his hand. The edge of his carbine stuck up beyond his shoulder.

“I know nothing,” Adele said. “I telephoned. What the girl does later is her own business.”

“And of the police, signora.”

“Then go to Maria Galluzo! My house is a good house.”

“One must look for the source of the infection,” the carabiniere said, smoothly and patiently.

“She was in on it,” the soldier said, loudly and angrily. “They're all in on it.”

“Calmo, amico,” the carabiniere said.

“But she made me get sick!” the soldier said.

“What did you expect her to make you?” the Englishman said. “A bloody hero?”

“Then it was simply to introduce him, signora?” the carabiniere said. “You did not know the profession of this Maria?”

“She's a girl without work,” Adele said.

“Sì, of course,” the carabiniere said. “They are all girls without work. Exactly, signora, what kind of a house do you have here?”

“A house,” Adele said.

“And the soldiers?”

“I serve wine and eggs. Is that a crime?”

“One has not yet said there is a crime.” He turned, very elegant and tight and black in his uniform. “And this one here, the little one?” He indicated Mimi.

“She is my maid.”

“She lives here?”

“No. She lives with her family.”

“Sì, sì,” Mimi said. “With my family. We live in the Trionfale.”

“Show me the house, signora,” the carabiniere said. “There are other rooms, I suppose.”

They went out of the dining room. Adele went first. There was a look of resignation and distaste upon Ugo's face. Robert noticed that the old man still carried a newspaper under his arm.

Adele knocked on the bedroom door. Lisa opened it. Her hair was combed, and the lamp was lit on the table beside the bed. The lamplight seemed to emphasize the color of the bedspread.

“Ah,” the carabiniere said. “Buona sera. Do you live here, signorina?”

Robert could see her look slowly at all of them gathered in the hallway. He realized there were many of them.

“The signora is the wife of this American,” Adele said.

“So?” the carabiniere said. “Congratulations. Your identity card, please.”

Lisa waited. She seemed to wait for something else to be said. When they did not say it, she went to the table and took up her purse. She drew a small square card from her purse and brought it to the door and gave it to the carabiniere.

“Grazie,” the polite carabiniere said.

He examined the card.

“You are then this American's wife?” he said. He smiled at Robert.

“Yes,” Lisa said.

“You have the documents, of course.”

“The documents?” Lisa said.

“Of the marriage. One usually has such documents.” He smiled at both of them, at Lisa and at Robert. His smile seemed to acknowledge the ease of having those kind of documents.

“No,” Robert said. He came closer to the bedroom and went in and stood beside the girl. “I have them. But not here. I have them at my billet.”

“So? How unfortunate.” The carabiniere took out another book with a longish black cover. He began to write in the book. The slip of paper on which he wrote had straight heavy black lines.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “you can show them to the magistrate.”

“What magistrate?” Robert said.

“At the questura. The signora knows the address, I think.”

“Yes,” Adele said, “I know it.”

“So I thought.” He finished writing. He tore the slip out of the book of slips. “At eight o'clock in the morning,” he said.

He held the slip out toward Lisa.

“Wait a minute,” Robert said. “Why should she have to go to the questura? I told you we were married!”

“Do I question it, signore?” the polite carabiniere said. “But there has been a denouncement against this house. Unfortunately, the signora does not have her marriage documents, and she lives here.”

“We have a room,” Robert said.

“Of course: a room. Rome is full today of just such rooms.” He extended the slip politely. Robert watched Lisa take it, blindly and automatically. He watched her stare at it.

“Tomorrow, signora. At eight o'clock. May I suggest you search well for the documents? The magistrate is difficult.”

He touched his cap with the insignia of the sunburst on it.

“Buona sera.”

She was staring unbelievingly at the white slip in her hand.

“Andiamo,” the carabiniere said to the less handsome and the less authoritative one. They began to move quietly toward the door.

“Ain't you going to do anything about the old bitch?” the limping soldier said.

He stopped the carabiniere.

“When the nature of the house is proved, amico,” the handsome one said.

“Shove off,” the Englishman said. “You've done enough.”

They went down the hallway together. Their guns stuck up above their shoulders. Their uniforms were trim and black. The door slammed.

She was still staring at the slip of paper in her hand.