Authors: Martha Gellhorn
'Mr Kollonic,' Moira said, sitting forward on the edge of the leather chair, 'I called you because I want to ask you just one question.'
'What?'
'It is about that man we have discussed and myself.'
'Ze birz dates,' Signor Kollonic said woodenly.
Oh, can't he remember anything, Moira thought angrily, can't he be businesslike enough to write something down? She gave the dates rapidly; she gave again, upon demand, her relative knowledge of the hour of birth. Signor Kollonic shuffled papers on his desk, made a clucking sound of irritation, looked vaguely around him, and saw his small leather-bound book leaning against the Buddha. He opened it.
'I want to know what to do,' Moira said in a low voice. 'Now. Immediately. Something has happened.'
'Zere is no surprise in zis,' Signor Kollonic remarked, studying his book. 'Ze woman put you out. Ze man put you out. What do you want to know now?'
'Enrico didn't put me out,' Moira cried. 'How can you talk like that? It's only that I can't live in his flat. I want to know what to do, that's all.'
'I have told you. I tell you again. Find some man to marry.'
'Enrico is married; you told me yourself. I love him. What am I to do?'
'So?' Signor Kollonic said and smiled at her in mockery. 'You love him. Zis makes everyzing nice. Zis makes it easy. You wish me now to say somezing nice so you go away happy. I do not see why you complain. Did you not enjoy zis affair? Did zis man not give you somezing you never had before? Good. Now it is over. Ze man is tired.'
'You lie,' Moira said, standing tall and white before him, her fists clenched in anger. 'You lie because you hate women.'
'I do not lie,' Signor Kollonic said coldly. 'Zere is anozzer woman. Zis has been coming sometime, it is clear in ze movement of ze stars. It is coming sometime and now it has happen.' Signor Kollonic put his finger on a line in the book. 'Venus in transit over Leo. It happen last night, I zink. He has take anozzer woman to his bed; many women before and many women after. Zis is nozzing to him, only anozzer woman, you are only anozzer woman. But now you are ze woman he is finish wiz. If you do not believe me, ask him.'
Then her face frightened him, the fixed mad stare, the cruel down-line of the mouth. 'Go home now,' Signor Kollonic said; 'we will talk of zis some ozzer day when you feel better.'
Moira did not hear; she seemed to Signor Kollonic to swell and tower, to lean towards him menacingly; he pushed his chair back, ready to leap away from her. He felt he was watching her go insane, very slowly, feature by feature, in front of his eyes. If she moved closer, he would hit her; the stone paper-weight would do. Then she turned, silent, with the blind crazy eyes, and walked from his room. He leaned back in his chair and listened to her footsteps, going slowly, with an ominous heavy clearness, down the stairs. She had left the door open. Presently Signor Kollonic rose to shut and bolt the door; he remembered then that Moira had not paid him.
I will kill him, her mind said, I will kill him. A Topolino braked, skidded to the side, and the enraged driver blew the horn, against all Rome traffic rules, and leaned out the tiny window to scream at her. A woman with a market basket, standing on the kerb, shouted. Moira walked on, hearing and seeing nothing. I will kill him. I will find him and I will kill him. There was no hurry, she had only to walk slowly and steadily towards him; he would be there. She would raise the knife and drive it down. Her hand curved to hold the knife-handle, rough light wood; she held it tight; the blade was clean and wide, a butcher's knife, it shone because it was new. I will kill him. Then it will be all right, there will be no more trouble. First I will get the knife, then I will kill him. She walked on, with a heavy certain step. The streets were all the same since they led to him. He would be in his office, at his desk. She would walk across the room and raise the knife and drive it down. She lifted the knife now, and with a straight strong gesture brought it down in front of her. Like that, she thought, walking without haste. Like that. Again and again she raised the knife, seeing him, although he had no face and made no sound; she saw only his naked body and the knife going in with the clean new wide blade.
People stopped in the street to stare at this grim blonde woman, walking as if in her sleep, muttering to herself, and raising and lowering her right arm to strike something in the air. She might be drunk; she might be crazy; she was in any event not something you saw every day while strolling around to shop, to idle, or to enjoy whatever amusement the streets had to offer. Boys appeared from nowhere, as is usual in Rome, thin, quick, dark, and bright-eyed; they saw this fine odd spectacle and they romped behind her. Presently they were copying Moira's walk, and presently, in a line, like follow-the-leader, they were aping her raised and lowered right arm. With clowns' faces, closed in dark imitation of the woman, they muttered to themselves, strode stonily ahead, and struck the air. Now people laughed all along her way; it was irresistible; no one could forgo the pleasure of this harmless joke.
A boy, bored with the static quality of the game, skipped in front of Moira and tugged at her coat. She stopped, shook her head slightly, and looked at him. Proud of her attention and of the attention of the watching crowd, the boy, walking before her, showed Moira what she had been doing. She turned, dazed, and saw behind her the line of ragged grinning children who, at once, put on solemn expressions and mimicked her walk, muttering as they went. She heard around her, as in a nightmare, the loud open laughter of the grown-ups. The children strutted now, their right arms flailing. Suddenly Moira began to sob, in deep coughing gasps; the grownups looked shocked and hurried away; the boys, after a dismayed moment, ran off to the shelter of side streets. She stood alone, ashamed and terrified in the middle of Rome, and cried without hiding her face.
She knew that she had to escape this city and this people forever, and escape from herself or from this almost mad woman she had become. I would have killed him, she thought, if he had been there, I would have killed him. Nothing was safe; nothing was known; she moved in a dark tunnel of madness and treachery. But I am not like this, she thought in horror; I have never done anything like this in my life. There was her family, so calm, so always the same; and the house in Long Crendon and the house in Chester Square, bombed, but perfectly solid once and solid in memory. There was a whole reliable life, being and feeling like everyone she knew; and it had vanished. She might, this minute, be a murderess; she had wanted to be a murderess.
I must go, she told herself, now, at once. Go to Enid's; get my bags; there is money in my purse; the night train; I must go home. It is not safe here, I cannot tell what I will do. I must get back with decent people, where I know who I am.
The butler opened the door and said the Signora was out with the children. Moira did not answer but walked to her room on the courtyard, pulled her two suitcases from under the bed, and began to pack. She took only her old clothes, leaving behind the finery Enrico had given her. She could not bear to touch those dresses; she imagined them stained with blood. What has happened to the world? she asked herself, folding dresses badly and squashing them into the imitation-leather suitcases. She thought ahead to London, but it was a grey alien place, a tomb. It had been so gay and so much home during the war. One belonged then, one had a place, a real job, everyone was so kind and so charming, men were friendly fine people, fighting for their countries, she was happy and sure of herself and never like this, rushing she didn't know where to get away from something she could not even understand.
I must pull myself together, Moira told herself, and went to the bathroom to bathe her face. She combed her hair, put on fresh lipstick, and finding her face recognizable, she began to feel quieter. She would think of nothing now except packing shoes on the bottom, wedging empty spaces with underwear and stockings, refolding the dresses so that they lay flat on top.
The butler warned Enid gloomily that the Signorina had returned. Enid's party had been a success, which softened her, but afterwards, talking to Hugh and thinking it over, she felt nervous about Moira. She really had to patch it up with Moira, even if Moira was in the wrong; she couldn't have Uncle Robert and Aunt Isabel thinking all sorts of ghastly things and Moira talking to friends in London. With determined brightness, Enid went to Moira's room, saw her packing, hoped above all there wouldn't be a tearful scene, and said, 'My dear, I think we were both hasty yesterday. We mustn't have a quarrel; it would be such a pity.'
'Oh, Enid.' Moira turned, trying to understand what Enid was talking about.
'I don't want you to leave us in an unhappy frame of mind.'
'No,' Moira said dimly. 'No.'
Enid stood by the door, wondering what had come over Moira; she seemed even more muddle-headed and indecisive than usual.
'I got a letter from Daddy,' Moira murmured. 'It seems Mummy isn't very well. I think I'd better go home.'
'Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry. How dreadful for you!' Poor Aunt Isabel, Enid thought, but really what a blessing; it does solve everything.
'Is it serious?' she asked.
'I don't know.'
Mummy and Daddy, and Long Crendon; and London, looking for a job; and awful weather and some office with the girls putting on a kettle morning and afternoon, and she'd have to stay with Joan on that cramped little day bed in Joan's Kensington flat, until she found something for herself; and Daddy wouldn't help of course and everyone was the same, worrying about rations and clothes and no servants, the same old friends.
'I don't really know,' Moira said; 'I had rather a shock from the letter but perhaps I'm exaggerating. Perhaps I ought to wait until I hear more.'
'Oh, darling,' Enid said quickly, 'Aunt Isabel isn't very young or very strong, you know. Think how guilty you'd feel if anything happened. I'm sure you've made a wise decision.'
After all, I've been away six months, Moira thought; perhaps things have changed; there might be an interesting job, one can't tell. Six months is quite a long time. The papers seem to say it's all a bit better. And there are only three really bad months before spring. I suppose I should ...
'I dare say you're right,' Moira said. She might as well pack the new dresses; they were wool; it wasn't as if she were going home in the summer.
'I know you'll be much happier, seeing for yourself,' Enid said; 'but what bad luck, isn't it?' She really is the limit, Enid thought; she has no feelings about anything, not even her own mother. One cannot sympathize with her, she's an absolute stick, hardly human at all.
'Yes,' Moira said. 'Frightfully bad luck. But I mustn't complain, not after I've had this lovely long holiday.'