Authors: Martha Gellhorn
'I am renting my flat,' Signor Chiaretti added quickly. 'Some rich Americans want it; they will spend a great deal of money to improve the heating system, so I cannot ask you there. At eight-thirty, then, on Tuesday?'
'Yes, Enrico. When were you born?'
'
Cara
, what a strange question.'
'I know, but I've been to see the most amusing fortune-teller and I am longing to hear about you. It's great fun. Do tell me, he reads a little book with one's stars in it.'
This sounded harmlessly insane to Signor Chiaretti. 'I was born on August 6, 1907. You see, I am old enough to be your father.'
'Enrico, don't be silly. What hour?'
'The hour of my birth?'
'Yes.'
'What a serious fortune-teller he must be. Let me think. I believe it happened suddenly in the middle of a tea-party. Now, darling, I must go; people are waiting to see me. I am so happy you called but, darling, in Italy ladies do not usually telephone to men's offices; people get strange ideas.'
'I won't do it again,' Moira promised, 'only I was so worried not hearing from you.'
'I am sorry, but you do understand.'
'Yes, of course, Enrico. Enrico, I'm afraid I've been frightfully extravagant.'
In his elaborate office, surrounded by all the matching angular shiny dark furniture, Signor Chiaretti smiled with malice. The English lady was becoming less and less an English lady. He wished he had time to tease her a bit, to make her beg for the money, but people really were waiting.
'You need more?'
Moira took in her breath; this was horrible; he should not have made it necessary to mention money, she had never asked for anything before.
'Well...' she began. Signor Chiaretti prepared to enjoy himself, but his secretary put her head in the door and whispered that the
Commendatore
was impatient, so he said, 'I will send you a letter. Forgive me, I must hang up. Goodbye, my dear.'
Moira was calling from a sordid little café on the Via della Croce and suddenly Rome seemed to her unspeakably dirty and she herself covered with grime and it was cold and everyone had some place to go, something to do, and no time for her. She might as well take the girls for a walk. Against her will, she thought of Enid wanting her to leave and Enid's ingratitude was part of the dismal damp ugliness of the city.
Enid and Moira were arranging bargain flowers when the letter arrived. The address was typewritten; the butler said a messenger had brought the letter. Moira put the envelope into her jacket pocket and went on snipping the ends off rather stunted stock, a flower which, owing to bushiness, went a long way.
'Something interesting?' Enid asked.
'A note from Mrs Martin,' Moira said, 'I recognize the typing. It will be some errand she wants me to do before I go there tonight.'
Here I am scraping and saving, Enid thought and jabbed a carnation into a vase, and Moira doesn't dream of offering to help; there is no reason for me to keep her, I don't see why Hugh should have this unnecessary expense.
'Will Mrs Martin be staying all winter?' Enid said.
'One never knows. She's so odd. She might leave the day after tomorrow.'
'But it seems,' Enid insisted, 'like a permanent job. After all, you've been working several weeks and she must like you, she is always giving you presents.'
Tight-mouthed, cold-eyed, Moira said, 'She doesn't think her book is going well. She may chuck it any minute.'
I do understand Uncle Robert, Enid thought; I remember when we were children how he used to get wild with Moira; he used to say she was so heavy. She really takes too much for granted, I never saw such a
slug
. She might, on her own, without my saying anything, have noticed that she has been here nearly five months. It is outrageous to have to hint and creep around like this. I'd like to tell her straight out that she cannot live the rest of her life with us.
'Well, my dear,' Enid said, 'when you know your plans, you'll tell me, won't you? Would you mind finishing the flowers? I have some telephoning to do.'
Moira cut the flowers quickly, bunched them into bowls, put the bowls around the living-room, thought how dowdy they looked, and hurried to her room. What was Enid leading up to, what had she meant? One could not trust Enid, even as a child she had never spoken out, she always worked round one in an insincere way. Unbelievable, Moira thought; it simply is not possible for Enid to be inventing nasty underhand schemes when I've slaved as her governess and housekeeper all these months. Moira tore open the envelope; there were three ten-thousand-lire notes folded inside a sheet of blank paper. Not a word; money; cold money like a payment; not a word; no matter how busy he was nor how many people were waiting for him he could have scribbled something. She would never have treated him this way; if she were dying, she would still manage to send him a little sign of her feeling, her love. Moira fell on her bed and wept. She had slipped the lire notes under the pillow.
She realized that Enid wanted her to leave the house earlier and earlier; it was too shaming, you might think Enid grudged sharing the evening drinks. Enid was always saying, 'Oughtn't you to be going now, Moira?' and Hugh was always hiding behind a paper and vaguely waving it at her as she left the flat. Luckily, she had a great deal to do before Tuesday; a new permanent and several fittings on a dress which could be paid for later, as thirty thousand lire would not last very long. Moira, filling time until Tuesday, saved five thousand lire; she meant to return once to Signor Kollonic, not for herself since the little man disgusted her but to collect some quaint information from the stars, for Enrico's amusement.
Signor Kollonic, on Monday afternoon, opened his door as before, with delay; bowed but seemed not to recognize her, it was the same non-committal bow to a stranger; and again Moira found herself sitting in the soiled room on one of the scratched leather chairs.
'I have his birth date,' Moira said.
'Who?'
'Oh, you remember, Mr Kollonic, we were talking about a man who means a great deal to me, last week, and you told me to get his birth date.'
'Ah yes,' Signor Kollonic said wearily, and went to one of the hanging bookshelves for the battered leather-bound volume.
Can it be? Moira asked herself. How could I not have noticed before? There was a curious revealing plumpness about Signor Kollonic's hips and thighs, a slight roll to his walk, there were also his manicured dimpled hands and the delicate gestures he made. Oh, for heaven's sake, Moira thought, he won't be any use at all about me and Enrico, it isn't his cup of tea. Really, the world was getting too dreary, pansies everywhere, pansies when you least expected them. So furtive, Moira thought, you never know what they're thinking.
'What is it?' Signor Kollonic asked.
'August 6, 1907. And he remembers he was born in the middle of a tea-party.' Moira laughed, it was typical of Enrico to put it that way; Signor Kollonic looked at her with thoughtful disgust.
'It is not good,' Signor Kollonic said, 'if you do not say ze exact hour. Now,' and he ruffled the pages of his book. A small lamp with a shade of machine-made Chinese embroidery lighted his table; he leaned closer, holding the book under its weak glow.
'Well,' Signor Kollonic said, shaking off with effort heavy weights of fatigue and boredom, 'zis is a simple man. He knows everyzing he wants and zen he gets it; many Italians are like zis. Zere is no imagination. It is like children wiz ze candy. Now zis man is ambitious but not too much; he gets all he wants from his work. He has much money, he would be unhappy if he does not have but he is free wiz ze money, he like to spend, and also he like how good it looks to spend. He has good position. He is of course only interested for ze women. Many Italians are like zis.' Signor Kollonic shrank a little with contempt or distaste. He turned pages. 'Very strong, very good healz,' he murmured, 'but must be careful for ze rheumatism. Zat comes later. He has always big success wiz ze women, very vital, much energy, ze women like zis. Also much sexual talent, a big gift; born under Leo wiz Mars and Jupiter in conjunction in ze first house. Intelligent but has no mind, is often ze case.'
Moira sat very still, not allowing herself to form any opinion from these absurd words.
'Many women,' Signor Kollonic muttered and flipped the book back to a page near the front. He studied for a moment in silence, and then he giggled. 'Funny man,' he said appreciatively. He seemed cheered by what he had found on this page. 'What a fools he makes,' Signor Kollonic observed; then he remembered Moira and hurried on. 'Your situation is difficult. Zere is zis family you are living wiz, zen no money except from zis man, zen you cannot see so often zis man and you are very much attracted for him. But no, you must be patient. What zis man gives you is very nice, very good for you, do not make a big story and arguments wiz him. Zat way he will become tired and go away like ze ozzers. He is a very well-organize man, he arrange his life so it goes ze way he like it; you must be patient. Now he cannot see you so much because he have a little trouble or somezing wiz his wife. Trouble,' Signor Kollonic said and frowned in doubt, 'no, I zink he have no trouble; he must only stay wiz ze wife now for zis time.'
Signor Kollonic felt the table move between them and raised his eyes and saw, with astonishment, that this silly pink woman had collapsed, face-down, among his papers. He reached over to rescue an ink bottle.
'Somezing is wrong, Miss?' Signor Kollonic searched his mind and came up with 'Chap leg '. 'You are well, Miss Chapleg?' There was no answer. She would now, he thought, need to lie down and either want a cold rag on her head or a cup of tea. It was intolerable. Intolerable to waste his time reading the future and the past for those who had neither; intolerable, when he only wanted to study Chinese and be with Giuseppe, even to look at these rich stupid women who came to his flat waving five-thousand-lire notes; but beyond endurance if they now began to faint in his home. Why did she come today if she was feeling ill; had she no manners, no consideration? Signor Kollonic circled the table on his small feet, quiet in bedroom slippers, and touched Moira's shoulder.
She lifted her face then, it looked to him like a large smooth smear of white rubber, and said, 'I am ill, I must go home.'
With relief, Signor Kollonic escorted her to the door. At the door he asked, 'Will you fix your bill ze next time, Miss Chapleg?' and with a movement of revulsion she fished a big lire note from her bag, gave it to him, and started down the stairs, holding herself steady against the wall.
At the end of Signor Kollonic's bustling street was the river. Moira thought about walking; each step was planned and carefully executed, her body was stone cold and stone heavy and her feet were far away and strange and the important thing was to put them down safely, and not fall. At the river there would be a wall to lean on. Now she was resting her weight on her arms, hanging over the wall like a seasick passenger on a deck railing. She felt this was all right; even in this abominable moment of despair she must not make a spectacle of herself. Few Italians ever stopped to consider the Tiber, flowing greasy and grey between the prominent mud banks, but it was something people could do if they chose. Moira thought nothing for a while, she struggled against chill waves of nausea. She breathed slowly through her mouth, fought off dizziness, and waited. She knew thinking would be even worse, when it started.
Then she began to cry; a little rain of tears dripped from her eyes and down her cheeks. Enrico, Enrico, she said in her mind. How could he? How could he be so cruel, so false? She had loved him, she had never hurt him, she had given him her whole self, body and heart, with trust, how was it possible that any man could be so wicked? The dream was smashed, the dream of the safe cherished future with Enrico, a life of love and ease; there was nothing ahead now, but the past was more agonizing. She understood that all the time she had been loving him, Enrico was playing with her, laughing at her. She could bear to lose the future but could not endure the emptiness of the past.
Moira wiped her eyes, because a man in blue mechanic's clothes had passed behind her three times, staring with interest; in a moment he would speak to her, no doubt impertinently. She straightened her back, shivered, and headed for the bridge, for the right side of the city, where people had sufficient manners not to leer and pry.
She did not doubt Signor Kollonic; hateful, slippery, abnormal he surely was, but not a liar, he had no reason to lie. And besides this explained everything she had not realized needed explaining. Enrico was clear to her, Enrico's flat, Enrico's absent servants, Enrico's business trip, Enrico's extraordinary way of not making plans or promises or even offers. Walking helped; she felt less cold; her feet behaved; the wet sharp air soothed her eyes. The cad, she thought, the disgusting cad. She had always heard Italians were cads and refused to believe it. She was too tolerant, she wanted to think the best of people. What Englishman would ever have behaved in this way, what Englishman was capable of this awful cheap smooth treachery? It was horrible to be mixed up with such people, it was too hopeless and vulgar and beyond anything. What could one expect? How had she ever allowed herself? Being hurt was one thing, and too painful to think about, but to be so belittled, so humiliated, so tricked, was really a nightmare. I cannot bear it, she thought, and at once saw her meeting with Enrico tomorrow, her last meeting, and how she would tell him and make him know what a miserable little bounder he was. She would not permit him to think he could wound her; she would leave him with the memory of her total contempt.
Oh, these people, she thought, swerving away from passing strangers, these greasy loud second-rate people. She recognized the Post Office; now, in the early dark, crowds walked down the middle of the narrow cobbled streets, talking and talking (was anything more repellent than this constant Italian chatter?), stared in shop windows, gestured, held their arms around each other; each one of them frivolous, irresponsible, untrustworthy. And so many of them; Italians always operated in a mob, whole families gabbled and clustered together, friends gesticulated in little bunches and never moved for cars never gave way to anyone else. Undisciplined, dirty, smelling, unrespectable: and masses of food everywhere, and the shops full of real silks and face-creams and marvellous sweaters and beautiful bags, while hard-working decent people like the English lived wretched lives. I hate them, Moira thought; you cannot trust them as far as you can see; they are absolutely no good, they take nothing seriously, they are all pigs who only care for their own comfort.