Authors: Martha Gellhorn
He pulled her gently to her feet, put his arm around her shoulders, and led her to the bedroom, which was as clean, tan, and neatly furnished as the living-room except for the turned-down bed.
'We have been away from each other too long,' Signor Chiaretti murmured. He switched on a small shaded lamp by the bed and began to undress her with steady practised hands.
There was more she could learn to beg for, more than money. He was cold with disgust, thinking of the nonsense he had been obliged to declaim, so earnestly, so honourably, all evening. He had appeared a fool and a beginner in his own eyes. It was a mistake to have spoiled her. She imagined that being desired was her right; she would now discover it was no woman's right, but a privilege to be earned.
Moira, snuggled like a cat by Enrico's side, did not at first sense that something was wrong. She felt warm and released from pain; her nerves loosened; she was at home as before in this dark room with the man who loved her. Only gradually did she understand that the man was far away. That wild and lovely current which flowed between their skins was shut off; stopped; he lay quietly; he was so detached he might have been alone. I have lost him, she thought, he doesn't want me, he doesn't feel me, I mean nothing to him. What difference did a wife make or this suspicious flat or anything? she had talked away the whole meaning of life. It cannot be, Moira thought in desperation, I will not let it be, he belonged to me, he had only to touch me to know. Insatiable and satisfying, certain, strong, urgent, beautiful: Oh, God, she prayed, make him come alive again, make him remember. Grown wise through fear, knowing for once exactly what she wanted, Moira began to lure, wheedle, caress, guide the man back to his passion.
Mrs Martin grew more whimsical each day. Sometimes she needed Moira between seven and nine; sometimes between two and four in the afternoon; sometimes, as usual, until late in the night. Enid thought that Mrs Martin was fed up with Moira too, and taking this erratic way of showing it; or else, as Moira suggested, Mrs Martin was bored with her memoirs, whatever they could be, and would soon chuck the whole business.
'If Mrs Martin leaves Rome,' Enid said to her husband, 'I simply don't know what I'll do. I must insist on Moira finding a place of her own. Then if she's out of a job she'll have to get another or go back to Uncle Robert and Aunt Isabel, as she should have done long ago. This is really too appalling, Hugh; do think of something.'
'My dear,' Hugh said, brushing a speck of lint from his collar, 'I am late for the office. I really cannot discuss this every day. It seems to me best to tell Moira you need her room for an Italian governess.'
Moira knew it was dangerous but there was nothing else to do. She could not sit through any more solitary movies. Enrico was seldom free for the whole evening, and never seemed to know his plans. He would telephone (what chances they took!) and say he was the concierge at the Hassler; if Moira was not at home he left a message to the effect that Mrs Martin expected her at four, at seven, at nine, at eleven. Moira had a key to the flat on the Via Cesare Balbo; she would let herself in and wait; she brought a book. For a few weeks she had tried to make the place more intimate; Enrico did not object to this expense. She bought flowers and vases; she changed the curtains, having found quite a nice bright chintz at Croff's; she spread magazines and cigarette boxes around on the tables; she stored whisky in the cupboard. It did not look like anyone's home, no matter what she did, and these vague piecemeal efforts at wifeliness depressed her. An unseen charwoman came in the morning to clean. The last flowers withered and were not replaced. The pretty plants hung in dank green streamers; Moira threw them into the dustbin.
The children and the servants were aware of another change in Moira. She was short with the children; taking them for a walk she always thought Enrico might have telephoned, she would miss him, perhaps he would not call again for days. She hurried the children around as if they were catching an invisible train. She barked at them to be careful at street crossings and sailed ahead, not looking to see how they fared. She never deposited them, alone, excited, nervous, but grateful, in any of the lovely cinemas they were forbidden to visit. She never even bought them cakes at the English tea-shop. Their dutiful efforts at conversation were snubbed: 'Don't worry me now, Jill, I'm thinking.' Jill told Miranda that it was not possible for anyone to be more hateful than Moira; even if they got an Italian governess, it couldn't be worse.
The servants found Moira not thorough and nagging as before, but ice-cold, despising, and curt. She did not bother to cover her accusations in routine politeness; also she did not give the servants time to protest, but left the kitchen, the sewing-room, with behind her their frustrated outpourings. The cook definitely was going to leave, after next week's big dinner; she would not stand for this. The Signorina expected her to feed the servants on macaroni in water; she had never worked anywhere that the accounts were inspected like this. She was not used to being spoken to as a thief. The second maid, who was younger and less confident than the others, cried a great deal; Moira had blamed her for scorching the sheets which it was her duty to iron, 'out of pure stupidity' Moira said in a frozen voice. Even though it was winter and no one liked to look for a job in cold weather, they thought the moment had come. It was the Signorina or them, the padrona could decide.
Moira spent a great deal of time at the hairdresser's but it seemed to do no good. There was something spiteful about hairdressers' mirrors, or perhaps it was the harsh overhead light in the room where women in sacks sat about drying their hair under machines and stretching their fingers out to be painted. She saw lines on her face which were new; her mouth was not full and proud and gay as it had been, it had a worried look, it was pinched. She often had headaches. Enid was hounding her, there was no other way to describe it, with sly remarks and suggestions, frowns, sighs, mean little shrugging gestures; Enid was making her life hell. And Enrico was driving her mad. She dared not stay away from the house for fear of missing a call. Sometimes he let her wait four days at a time and once, when she could not stand the loneliness and telephoned his office, he said, 'I am sorry, Miss Shepleigh, I will have to call you later, I am engaged,' and hung up on her. Two days ago, without heat and without apology, he announced that she must economize a bit; perhaps it would be best to settle on a regular allowance.
She had beat at him with her fists and cried out that he was cruel and unjust; she had no life; she had no certainty and no order; he treated her like a kept woman; she could not bear it. He had said nothing, but only looked at her with raised eyebrows. And then she had seized him, with hands which felt to her like claws, terrified of her greed, terrified that nothing restrained her or disgusted her, she needed him too much.
There was only that, and though she knew she was unhappy, she could not imagine life without those hours, whenever they came, close to him, the two naked bodies close together, devouring each other. I will do anything, she thought, walking aimlessly down the Via Condotti, looking in shop windows, avoiding the house because she could not give Enid one extra chance to speak clearly. I will do anything, only I must not lose him.
Signor Chiaretti was frightened. No, he told himself, it is stupid to exaggerate: 'uneasy' was the word. He did not like desperate women; of them you could predict only one thing: they would cause trouble. He was also, though this he refused to concede, somewhat exhausted. His creature, his invention, had gotten out of hand completely. Pygmalion, he thought, was a novel experience, but Pygmalion was turning into Frankenstein. It was a bore, it was a burden, it was also alarming. He did not consider this delicious game of sex as a mutual burning alive; he did not wish to be consumed in such a relentless blaze. There was more to love-making than the satisfaction of the body; there was gaiety, there was coquetry, and subtle quarrels and reconciliations. After all, he was a civilized man, not a rutting animal. He thought with tenderness of Lulu Boisvain, who was so controlled, so wary, and so sensitive to values. Not a monomaniac tigress, he thought, seeing the comic side of it, despite his discomfort.
And he had very little time nowadays, when leisure had always been his speciality. He had never felt troubled by the juggler's trick of balancing a wife, a career, a social life, a mistress, and also many agreeable little meetings, for tea, for cocktails, for solitary evenings at a night-club table with other ladies who caught his fancy. Whereas now, dreading what insanity Moira might practise if too neglected, he felt obliged to give her all the free time he could spare. He meant to extricate himself slowly and with caution. His best hope was that she would find another lover but the chance for that was slight; you would think those idiotic Langdons could dredge up some men from their acquaintances. It seemed to him ruthless the way they slid out of their responsibilities; he did not believe for a minute that they accepted Moira's ridiculous story about Mrs Martin. They must know Moira was being kept. It was like the English to be serene and blind at their own convenience, to ignore Moira's money as if it were respectable in order to spare themselves expense. The miserliness of the English was well known, shocking, but he was not a reformer and it was not his business to improve national characteristics. However, to dump their relative on him as an emotional problem was too much. He felt aggrieved, he felt absurd. The English as usual had made a fool of a foreigner.
Enid's big dinner was an important occasion, planned well in advance; the new American Ambassador and his wife were coming. She had been extravagant with food and wine and flowers; she had a new dress; the guest list glittered with valuable names. She had been too busy to think much of Moira these last days. There was nothing Enid enjoyed more than a slightly dangerous diplomatic pretentiousness; one never knew how one's own Ambassadress felt about one's giving a really grand party. She was nervous although elated. The afternoon of the party, Moira announced casually that she would be home tonight after all.
Enrico had telephoned, cancelling their engagement. It was a new tactic he was trying out. He made an appointment to keep Moira quiet; he would then call up, very late, and apologize humbly. A difficult client demanded to see him; his wife had accepted an invitation without warning him; a Minister expected him for a conference. It happened often, but not too often; Moira had to believe him. She was numbed with disappointment, she was not thinking of Enid and had forgotten Enid's tedious party. She simply did not want to go out alone in the cold night and face the speculative stares of strangers in a restaurant.
'I am very sorry,' Enid said in a voice of ice, 'it's quite impossible, Moira. I must ask you to be a little more considerate. It would make thirteen at the table. Beyond that, I cannot be expected to arrange my life entirely to suit you. You are putting a great strain on me.'
Moira stared at her. The two women stood straight in the flowered, polished room.
'I do not understand your tone,' Moira said. 'I have done nothing except try to be useful to you; it would seem to me I deserved at least courtesy for that. I am sorry about tonight and of course I will go out at once so as not to embarrass you.'
Enid wanted to stamp her foot with rage; she wanted to slap Moira or pull her hair; buried childish desires for the outward and clear demonstration of hatred rose in her; she was so angry that she feared she would cry since she could not relieve herself by kicking this insensitive, insolent monster of a woman. And how dared Moira, how dared she? She behaved as if Enid were in the wrong. I will not stand for it one moment longer, Enid thought, and as she has no feelings, I need not worry about hurting them.
'Moira, I think we should discuss this matter now,' Enid said, 'since you have brought it up. Hugh and I did not want to speak of it, we expected of course that you would choose to live in a flat of your own, as you have a job and are staying in Rome permanently. The children are not learning Italian, and it was always our plan to have a governess for them; we meant to start them off in the autumn. It is now nearly Christmas; you have been here six months. You have had adequate time to make up your mind as to what you wish to do, and we cannot postpone finding someone who will be able to look after the children properly. I think you should begin to ask about a flat at once, so that we can make our own plans.'
Rigid, Moira said, 'I shall move in with friends immediately, Enid. Naturally I would not have stayed here a day if I'd thought you didn't want me. It only hurts that you do not feel I have helped you.'
Damn her, Enid thought, oh, damn her to hell; now I am going to have to apologize and explain, thank her for all her silly messing about the house and for trotting the children out in the afternoon. I won't, Enid thought; I am damned if I will. She has not said thank you once; she is so bloody-minded that she thinks all the thanks are on our side. What for? I'd like to know. I won't do it.
'Whatever you think best,' Enid murmured and turned to rearrange the expensive roses on the mantelpiece.
Moira's hands shook so that she could hardly pack her overnight bag. Enid's coarseness was as disgusting as her ingratitude. She was ashamed that Enid was her own cousin, and though it was not a thing she would ever have said to anyone, she had to admit that blood told; Enid's mother, Aunt Hazel, had been a perfectly horrible woman; the whole family thought she was common. Enid was getting just like her; poor Hugh, Enid was becoming a shrill vulgar bully. I can't wait to get out, Moira thought, I will never speak to Enid again. She can treat her servants as she likes but she needn't think she can behave in this appalling way to me. Her hands trembled with fury; she dropped a small jar of face-cream, to her increased rage she pulled a thread in the stockings she was packing.
It could not be nastier, but on the other hand there was something to be said for clearing the air. This settled everything. She would go now at once to the apartment on the Via Cesare Balbo and telephone Enrico and say she had to see him if only for a few moments before dinner. It was a matter of extreme importance. She would explain what had happened; Enrico would comfort her and understand; and then simply she would live in their little flat. Staying there all the time, it would be worth while to make it really pretty, his true home. On the whole, Enid's revolting outburst was for the best; she would be less exhausted and nervous if she didn't have those miserable errands to do for Enid every day; she would be able to lead a quiet normal life again. Knowing she was there, Enrico would come more often. It was not as if they had to make arrangements by telephone, possibly missing each other. Much better, she thought; I am well out of this depressing house.