Two Friends (17 page)

Maurizio reflected for a moment: “Modesty is fine of course … but if I may be frank, Lalla dresses like a beggar.”

Sergio pressed his lips together, offended. “Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s true,” Maurizio said, with a cruel calm. “She wears rags … shapeless skirts, worn-out shoes … Her gloves are dirty and full of holes … The other day she was wearing a blouse that was discolored under the arms from sweat … Her stockings are darned … Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but she looks like a beggar. If I were you I would be ashamed to go out with her.”

Sergio was so disconcerted by this attack that he did not respond immediately. His heart was heavy. After a long pause, Maurizio continued: “Listen, instead of twenty thousand, I’ll lend you two hundred thousand … It’s very little, even for a woman who dresses moderately well, and almost nothing for Lalla, who owns no clothes at all. At least she’ll be able to buy a dress, stockings, a blouse, some shoes, and maybe a few other things … like a slip or a camisole;

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I’m sure hers are in a terrible state, if she has them.”

As he calmly said these words, he pulled a checkbook and a pen out of his pocket. He wrote out the check, saying, “Don’t worry, you can pay me whenever you like.”

“But I …,” Sergio began, still taken aback.

“Don’t worry,” Maurizio said, holding up his hand, “and anyway, you can’t deny her these things that will make her so happy. It makes her deeply unhappy, as it would any woman, to go about dressed in rags.

After all,” he said, staring at Sergio, “I’m happy to give you this money … I’m very attached to Lalla, as you know, so it gives me pleasure.”

Without paying any more attention to Sergio, he finished writing the check. Sergio watched him, staring at the dark, shiny hair on his head, the head of a courteous, well-brought-up man bent over the checkbook at the small table. He wanted to protest, to stop him, but he knew that he would not, though he was not sure why. He had a strange feeling, a kind of gratitude mixed with humiliated attraction, and at the same time, a bitter sense of powerlessness, of irredeemable inferiority. Once again Maurizio had shown him up and was imposing his will; he towered over him with his money, as he had before with his intelligence. Sergio felt a violent desire for revenge, though he was not sure what form this revenge would take. He saw his hand reaching for the check, bathed in a ray of sunlight that came in through one of the windows. As in a dream, he heard himself say “Thank you.” He peered at the check. It was in his name, and suddenly it occurred to him: “He doesn’t want Lalla to know … This is between Maurizio and me … Either he really loves her, or he wants to humiliate me, or both.”

As if hearing his thoughts, Maurizio said nonchalantly, “Of course you shouldn’t tell Lalla that I gave you the money … Tell her you were paid to write a screenplay or something along those lines … You’ve written for the movies in the past, haven’t you?”

“No.”

“Well, think of something … then after a while

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I’ll give you more money … for the next installment
of your screenplay … That way Lalla will be happy … Clothes are important to women.”

“But I’ll never be able to pay you back.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Maurizio said.

Without knowing why, Sergio blurted out, “You think that, with the excuse of this lie about a screenplay, I’ll accept more money from you.”

“Well,” Maurizio said, shrugging, “if you are willing to take this money I don’t see why you wouldn’t take more.”

“Have I accepted?”

“Well, you put the check in your wallet.”

“And how much will you give me later?”

“As much as you need,” Maurizio said, calmly, “so that Lalla can dress decently.”

“And you’re happy to give me this money?”

“Yes, very … As I said, I feel great affection for Lalla.”

“Or is it because you want to humiliate me?”

Maurizio pretended not to hear his rebuke. He walked over to a small bar on wheels and asked, invitingly: “Would you like an aperitif … a cocktail?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“A martini, then,” Maurizio said. He mixed the gin and vermouth in a large glass, then rang a bell and asked the butler for some ice. As soon as the butler left the room, he asked, in the same calm voice as before: “Regarding our earlier conversation … have you come to a decision?”

Sergio’s heart jumped. “What do you mean?”

“Our conversation about my possible conversion to Communism.”

In a voice that did not feel like his own, and with the same spontaneity that had led him to ask Maurizio for money, Sergio heard himself respond: “I accept.”

There was a sound of broken glass. A small glass

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had crashed to the floor; it was not clear whether it had fallen out of Maurizio’s hand or had simply tumbled from the bar. “How nervous I am,” Maurizio said. His voice was agitated, polite, and intense. The butler returned with the ice. “You can put it there, Giovanni,” Maurizio said in his usual voice.

Maurizio picked up the pitcher containing the mixture of gin and vermouth and returned to where Sergio was sitting. He dropped in some ice with a spoon and, pouring the mixture into a small glass, said, with some nervous anticipation, “Not only will I sign up, but I’ll donate two million lire to the Party … on the day you fulfill your promise.”

He looked almost upset, overcome by a powerful, long-repressed happiness. Sergio could not help thinking that he seemed happy to join the Communist Party, and to obtain Lalla in the process. In other words, he had killed two birds with one stone. Sergio felt weak, and slightly faint. The blood drained from his face. In order to steady his nerves he gulped down his drink. Maurizio insisted: “So, how will we go about it?”

“You’re very impatient,” Sergio said, looking at his friend.

“You know I’m head over heels for her,” Maurizio said.

“I’ll speak with her today … but I’m not sure she’ll agree.”

“If you really want to, I’m sure you’ll convince her.”

Sergio stood up, abruptly. “I’m leaving,” he said, adding, “don’t get up … I know the way.” He rushed out without waiting for an answer.

Two questions went round and round in Sergio’s

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mind. Why had he taken the money? And why, once he had taken it, had he accepted Maurizio’s proposition to convert to Communism?

He could answer the first question with relative ease: out of love for Lalla. But he knew that this was not the real reason. The truth was that he had accepted the money for reasons that were deeper, and more obscure. He felt the need to thrust Lalla into Maurizio’s arms, and this money was simply a means to that end; he had sold Lalla to Maurizio, like a piece of merchandise. Why did he feel this need to thrust Lalla into Maurizio’s arms? The obvious answer was that he wanted to convince Maurizio to become a Communist, but the second, more subtle, was closer to the truth: there was a struggle for power going on between them, and he wanted to vanquish his opponent. If he convinced Maurizio to join the Party it would be his victory, the proof of his power. Each of his actions had two motivations, one more generous and more noble, the other darker and more selfish. He had accepted the money so that Lalla would be able to look more presentable, and so that she would become Maurizio’s lover. He wanted her to become
Maurizio’s lover so that he would join the Party, and in order to feel superior to him. Which was the true reason? Probably both, just as all our actions tend to be both disinterested and selfish.

These were his thoughts as he waited impatiently for Lalla to come home. He had expected to find her there, but when he returned, the room was empty. The landlady could tell him only that Lalla had gone out shortly after he had. It was odd; he knew that she did not like to go out alone, and she was lazy. He also knew that she had no money, not even enough for a coffee.

He waited for a long time until finally there was a knock on the door and the landlady told him that Lalla was on the phone. He picked up the receiver.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“What do you mean, what am I doing?” Sergio asked, surprised. “I’m waiting for you.”

Her voice wavered: “I’m here at … I’ve been

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waiting.”

“Where?”

He could hear voices, as if Lalla were asking for the address. She said: “Listen, take a taxi for once in your life … Come to Via Sisto Quinto, number twenty-seven.”

“Where?”

“I can’t explain … I’m drunk … Just come.” She hung up.

Feeling annoyed, Sergio took his overcoat from the coatrack and went out. He found a taxi in the piazza around the corner. From the look on the driver’s face he surmised that the address lay quite far away. The taxi traversed the entire city, went down a
few suburban streets, and then up a hill, and finally turned onto a new road lined with a few very modern buildings. On one side of the road lay these new constructions, each set quite far from the next, while on the other, the lights of Rome glimmered in the darkness. The taxi stopped. “Number twenty-seven,” the driver grumbled, pointing at one of the new buildings, six or seven stories tall, looming in the darkness.

Sergio paid and went inside. The foyer smelled of lime and recently waxed wood. It was not a luxurious building, but rather one of the new apartment complexes being built for the middle bourgeoisie, on lots that had until recently been farmland. As soon as he was inside, he realized that in her drunken state, Lalla had forgotten to tell him the apartment number or the name of the person she was visiting. “What now?” he wondered, looking around. He began to climb the stairs.

On the phone, he had heard voices and music. As soon as he encountered noise coming from one of the doors, he stopped. The pale, blond wood door had a plaque with the name Moroni. He hesitated and then knocked.

A young-looking maid came to the door. The shapely, almost elegant girl had blonde hair and wore a lot of makeup; her mouth was wide and red and she had blue eyes. Somewhat taken aback, Sergio asked if a young woman by the name of Lalla was there. There was a clamor of voices and a record player. The foyer, compact and bare except for two or three small objects, was empty. “There are so many people,”

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the maid answered, “I don’t know … Wait here a moment and I’ll bring the master of the house.”

She disappeared, and after a few minutes a man appeared; he looked to Sergio like a prosperous farmer or country merchant. “You must be Mr. Sergio,” he said, as soon as he saw him; “come in, come in, we’ve been waiting for you.”

He looked about forty years old, a short man with a large head and a prominent brow, and extremely regular features, almost like a sculpture. His face had a rustic, serious air. His large nose and wide mouth—which curved upward at the corners—seemed to belong on a larger, more vigorous frame. His tousled, messy hair revealed a pale bald spot, and he had a wide, yellowish, hard, and pensive forehead. He introduced himself—“Moroni”—and led Sergio into the other room, the source of the music and voices.

This room, which was rather small and almost empty of furniture except for a few chairs and a sofa in one corner, contained about twenty people. It was filled with smoke, and a record was playing; a few people danced. Sergio spotted Lalla in the arms of a young man with blond hair; he looked like an office worker, with thick glasses. As soon as she saw Sergio she walked up to him and exclaimed, “Sergio, you’re finally here,” embracing him emphatically. Sergio noticed that her breath smelled of alcohol. He took her in his arms and, pretending to dance, maneuvered her into the foyer. After releasing her arm, he asked: “What on earth are you doing here? Who is this Moroni, and who are the rest of these people?”

She laughed: “Moroni is an angel.”

“And you’re drunk,” Sergio said.

“Yes, I’m drunk,” she said, “and you know why? Because our life is depressing … because we’re
a pair of sad cases … When I drink, I can forget about it.”

“Who is this Moroni?”

“He’s one of my students,” Lalla answered, slowly. “I’ve mentioned him to you before … one of my English students.”

It was true. He remembered Lalla’s mentioning a certain Moroni, but had forgotten the name. He looked at her: “You didn’t mention this little gathering.”

“I didn’t know about it. He called at the last minute … You were gone … so I came and then I called you.”

“I’m hungry,” Sergio said, firmly; “I haven’t eaten.”

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“There’s food in the other room,” Lalla said, pointing to a small room off the foyer. As if there was nothing left to say, she turned around and returned to the sitting room.

Sergio went into the little dining room. Lalla was right: there was an abundance of food, and the room was empty. He picked up a plate, served himself some meat and vegetables, and sat down in a corner to eat. He began to feel contempt for Lalla, as if she had somehow become worthless in his eyes. He realized that this feeling was simply part of the preparation for what he was about to do: inform her of Maurizio’s proposition. He felt neither love nor affection for her, only a kind of impatience and incomprehension, as though her thoughts and complexities did not touch him in the least. What bothered him was her vacillating, exalted, inconsistent, irrational, and frivolous attitude toward life. She lived in a state of constant romanticism, based on nothing. In the
end, he reflected, he would leave her, even without Maurizio’s intervention. As he sank into these cruel thoughts, Moroni entered the room.

“I see you’ve eaten … Would you like anything else?”

“I would like some wine,” Sergio answered abruptly, without looking up.

Moroni went to the table, poured a glass of wine, and offered it to Sergio. “So, you are Signora Abbiati’s boyfriend.”

Sergio was quietly surprised at the description, but did not comment: “Yes.”

“The young lady,” Moroni continued, with a warm respect in his voice, “tells me that you will be getting married soon.”

Sergio snapped to attention. Not only had he never asked Lalla to marry him, but it had never even occurred to him. And yet Lalla had mentioned marriage to this man who was her student. This proved that marriage was something she hoped for, that their situation made her uncomfortable, and that she would have liked to be his wife. He felt a sudden wave of compassion, mixed with irritation. “Yes, we should,” he answered vaguely.