Наталия Гинзбург - The Dry Heart

I went to the Gaudenzi house one day to see if he was there or if they had news of him. The doctor wasn’t at home and his wife was washing the windows. While I watched her polish them she told me that the system was to clean them with a solution of ashes and then to rub them slowly with a wool cloth. Then she came down from the ladder and made me a cup of hot chocolate. But she said not a word about Alberto, so I went away.

Finally one day I met him on the street. I saw him from a distance with his briefcase under his arm and his raincoat open and flapping. I walked behind him for a while as he smoked a cigarette and flicked the ashes away. Then he stopped and turned around in order to stamp out the butt and saw me. He was very pleased and took me to a café. He told me that it was only because he was very busy that he had not come to call, but that he had thought of me often. I looked at him and tried to recognize in this little man with the curly black hair the cause of all my anguish and torment. I felt cold and humiliated and as if something inside me were broken. Alberto asked me how I had spent the summer and whether I had hidden in the coal cellar, and with that we both laughed. He remembered everything, without exception, that I had ever told him about myself. Then I asked him about his holiday. He immediately put on a weary and faraway expression and said that he had done nothing but look at the lake. He liked lakes, he said, because their water does not have the same violent colours and glaring light as that of the sea.

After we had sat for a short time in the café everything was just the way it had been before, and we laughed together at the stories I told him. He seemed very, very happy to be with me and I was happy too. I forgot how long a time I had waited for him in vain and told myself that if he had not been so busy he would surely have come to see me. I talked to him about my mother and father and the tax collector and the new arrivals at the boardinghouse. He made a sketch of me in his notebook while I was talking, then tore it up and made another. After that he sketched the lake where he had been staying, with himself rowing a boat and old ladies standing on the shore with little wiry-haired dogs holding their tails straight up in the air while they urinated against a tree.

We started to see each other once again almost every afternoon or evening. When I went upstairs to my room I asked myself if we were in love, without finding any answer. He never spoke of love and neither did I. I spoke only of my school and the boardinghouse and the books I had been reading. I thought of Alberto’s slender hands sketching in his notebook, the curly black hair around his thin face, and his slight body in a light raincoat going about the city. I thought about them all day long, to the exclusion of everything else: first the hands, then the notebook, then the raincoat, and then again the notebook and the curly hair showing below his hat and the thin face and the hands. I read Xenophon to eighteen girls in a classroom newly repainted in green and decorated with a map of Asia and a portrait of the Pope; ate my meals in the boardinghouse dining room while the landlady paced up and down among the tables; took the bus to Maona every Saturday and felt more and more like an idiot because I had no interest in anyone or anything. I was no longer so sure that he loved me, although he went on bringing me books and chocolates and seemed to enjoy my company. But he said nothing about himself, and while I read Xenophon to my class or put the girls’ marks down in my records, I could imagine only his slight figure going about its mysterious activities, wrapped in a flapping raincoat, following impulses and desires of which I was entirely ignorant. Then something like a fever would come over me. Once I had been a fairly good teacher and taken considerable interest in my pupils and their work. But now I felt not the least bit of affection for the eighteen girls in front of me; in fact, they bored me to the point of nausea and I could not even bear to look at them.

Francesca had come back from Rome in a very bad humour. I went to her house for dinner one night, meaning to leave early because Alberto might come to the boardinghouse to see me. It was an endless meal, with my aunt and uncle having a quarrel and Francesca sitting stubbornly silent in a stunning knitted black dress which made her look older than usual and very pale. After dinner my aunt took me up to her room and asked me what was the matter with Francesca. I told her that I didn’t know, and all the time I was impatient to go away, but she clutched my hand and cried. She said that she couldn’t understand Francesca at all, especially since Francesca had begun to wear nothing but black, with black hats that made her look so much older. She couldn’t make out what Francesca had been up to at the school of dramatics or what she intended to do with herself next. Francesca had got herself engaged during the summer to a promising young man of good family, but then she had thrown him over. I felt the minutes passing by and feared that Alberto might be at the boardinghouse already, and here my aunt clutched my hand in hers and sniffled into her handkerchief.

It was late when I finally escaped. When I arrived at the boardinghouse they were locking the doors and the maid told me that the usual gentleman had come to see me, waited for a while in the drawing room, and then gone away. I went up to my room, got into bed, and cried. It was the first time in my life that I had cried over a man, and it seemed to me this must be a sign that I loved him. I thought how, if he asked me to marry him, I would say yes, and then we would always be together and even when he was out I would know where he was. But when I imagined our making love together I felt something like disgust and said to myself that I couldn’t be in love with him after all. It was all very confusing.

But he never asked me to marry him, and we went on talking together like two good friends. He refused to speak of himself and always wanted me to do the talking. On days when I was in low spirits he seemed to be bored and I was afraid that he would never come to see me again. I forced myself to be gay and told him stories about the people at the boardinghouse and the landlady’s screeching daughter, which we laughed at together. But when he went away I felt tired. I stretched out on my bed and thought back to all the things I used to imagine. Now I had become too idiotic to have any imagination. I absorbed his every word and tried to see if there was any love in it. I took his words and turned them over and over again in my mind. They seemed to have first one meaning and then another, until finally I let the whole thing go and dozed off.

Once Alberto told me that he had never done anything in earnest. He knew how to draw, but he was not a painter; he played the piano without playing it well; he was a lawyer but he did not have to work for a living and it didn’t make much difference whether he turned up at his office or not. For this reason he stayed in bed all morning, reading. But often he had a feeling half of shame and half of satiety and thought he was going to stifle in his soft warm bed, with its yellow silk comforter. He said that he was like a cork bobbing on the surface of the sea, pleasantly cradled by the waves but unable to know what there was at the bottom. This was all he ever said about himself, except for the fact that he liked the country around the lakes. I absorbed these words and turned them over and over in my mind, but they amounted to very little beside the great stretches of mystery in his life, where only an old lady intent on her Sanskrit and a yellow silk comforter bobbed vaguely on the waves of my imagination.

While I was sitting there in the park it began to rain. I got up, went back to the café, and sat down at a small table near a window. Peering through the glass, I suddenly began to wonder whether anyone had heard my revolver shot. Our house is at the end of a quiet street, surrounded by a garden with trees. Quite possibly no one had heard it at all. This is the house of the old lady who studied Sanskrit; the bookcases are still full of Sanskrit tomes and the old lady’s odour lingers on. I never saw the old lady for myself because she died before we were married, but I saw her ivory cigarette holder lying in a box, her bedroom slippers, her crocheted wool shawl, and her powder box, empty except for a wad of cotton. And everywhere there was her odour.