Giovanni Arpino - Scent of a Woman

He moved closer until he was just a few inches from that pale face. The man straightened up and backed away at least a little.

‘I’m drunk, your Excellency.’

‘That’s fine. Quite all right,’ the gentleman rallied. ‘Every so often it’s just what’s needed. A release. I always say…’

‘Not a thing. You don’t say. You can’t say.’

The man leaned back against the seat, trying hard to regain a modicum of breathing room. He was sweating, his wrinkled eyelids quivering without their normal control.

‘I’m the one who’s going to say something. Know what it is?’ he threatened. ‘That we’re in a rotten country.’

‘A rotten world, for that matter.’ The man laughed shrilly in a burst of relief.

‘Granted. But above all a rotten country. Where your rotten breed is more clueless than anywhere else,’ he shouted.

‘Now I understand,’ the gentleman nodded. ‘You’re not Italian, and so…’

‘Me, no. That’s right. I’m only from Turin,’ he concluded, tired.

His chin was wobbling spasmodically. His right hand slowly flailed about before he was able to get a few more words out. He shrank back into his corner.

‘Raise those fine flags high, so they don’t pick up the stink on your hands,’ he breathed with some difficulty.

He appeared wiped out.

The gentleman began to rise cautiously, quietly took his suitcase and newspaper, then went out to the corridor, quickening his pace at once.

He handed me the empty flask, pointing to the suitcase. I climbed on the seat and rummaged about, shuffling things in confusion, until I found the other whisky.

‘Go away, Ciccio.’ He coughed, his fingers uncertain as they struggled with the metal cap. ‘Go and have a proper conversation somewhere else. Aren’t there ever any girls on these goddamn trains? For you, I mean. I need to sleep now.’

‘We had a good time,’ I said.

‘Huh?’ He looked up for a moment, his smile bewildered. ‘Yeah.’

‘He ran off quicker than a rabbit,’ I tried again, ‘like the conductor yesterday. This guy too: who knows what he’ll have to say about this trip?’

He made a vague gesture, writing it off in the air.

‘You open it.’ He held out the flask.

‘Wouldn’t it be better if…’

‘Please,’ he suddenly groaned despairingly. ‘Open it. And that’s that. No preaching.’

I unscrewed the cap and handed back the flask; he clasped it with his hand against his chest. ‘Still here? Go on, go. Beat it. I have to try and sleep. That’s all. Don’t give it a thought. Please.’

I went back into the corridor. In the surrounding darkness, streaks and glimmers of a first tenuous light appeared.

Every spiteful urge had left my body, seeped away; a bland sense of peacefulness soothed my muscles and my thoughts.

Soon the countryside would unfold in feminine undulations. Maybe I would see horses and long-horned cattle wandering loose among the patchwork of fields. And conical haystacks topping gentle slopes.

The two syllables of the word Ro-ma rolled on my palate like a precious morsel of great sustenance.

I no longer had the heart to turn around, to spy on him in there.

The storm was still spewing out brief bursts of rain, but the lightning and thunder were moving off. From the window of the hotel I saw a parking attendant dash across the street, stooped under a makeshift cellophane poncho. He hunkered in a doorway, where the legs and shoes of people who had already squeezed in to take shelter could be seen. Every so often a girl would lean out, laughing, to take a look. The ochre walls showed large splotches of rain; the pavement and a lop-sided row of rooftops were crossed here and there by channels of silvery coils, vivid purple streams.

A colourful umbrella rocked slowly on a balcony, a final gust of wind overturned it.

‘You haven’t read me the horoscope yet, chief,’ he complained from the bed.

In the grey light, the room’s decrepitude – the threadbare curtains, the now faded flower-patterned panels above the doors – was fully exposed. The bedsteads, unmatched, were of iron. The staff, after quite a long, trying telephone call, had granted us a shabby partition which was now placed between the two beds, further reducing the space and light.

‘Oscillations in the business realm, be cautious when buying and selling. Relationships: turn the other cheek to an offender. Health: psychophysical balance,’ I read.

‘They should be hung,’ he grumbled. ‘Go on: Capricorn.’

‘Great ambitions are not suited to you: take all ideas that come to mind with a grain of salt. Relationships: remain calm. Health: don’t overdo it at work. Why Capricorn, sir?’

‘Because of my cousin the priest,’ he scoffed. ‘Still raining?’

‘It’s almost stopped.’

‘Too bad. Roman thunderstorms: they hardly last. Wait for me downstairs. Have them call a taxi. I’m going to deal with this pain-in-the-ass cousin.’ He started to get up from the bed.

‘Wouldn’t it be better if I waited here?’

‘Don’t be silly. I’ve known this fleabag for an eternity. Nothing ever changes here. Not even the holes in the carpet. Go downstairs.’

His plate of sandwiches was still almost full, the bottle of Saint-Émilion, on the other hand, was empty.

A group of elderly American women crowded about the second-floor landing. They wore plastic caps and their feet were covered in transparent bags. They laughed as they moved around and regrouped, examining small flasks, a colourful scarf, some painted seashells. The doorman was elderly as well. Extremely tall, he seemed to be supported by invisible crutches; with a finger he directed his assistant, a staunch, mustachioed young man in a new uniform.

The taxi kept us waiting.

When he came down, the old doorman immediately went towards him, his arms rising like wings. They shook hands and exchanged a few words with brief, thin smiles.

Then he stepped outside to gulp in the freshly washed air.

‘Filthy old goat,’ he said cheerfully. ‘He must be at least a hundred. If he likes you, you can ask for the moon. Otherwise there’s no tip big enough.’

High clouds raced along swiftly revealing patches of sky; the smell of rain and wet rubber tires rose from the sidewalk.

The taxi driver turned down a narrow street and then another at high speed. The bamboo cane descended on his shoulder.

‘Unless you have hot pepper up your behind, slow down,’ came the rebuke.

‘Of course, sir. If it’s okay with you, it’s okay with me,’ the man laughed. He had a big toothless mouth and the back of his neck spilled over his collar in a huge roll.

We sped along the river, the waters murky with a stale covering of foam. The leaves of the trees still seemed weighed down by the rain. After crossing a bridge, the taxi cut through a square, took an uphill street.

‘It would have been better to leave you at the hotel. Or let you take a walk. What do you have to do with my cousin the priest?’ he said.

‘But I’m glad to come.’

‘Suit yourself. De gustibus ,’ he said unenthusiastically. ‘Not that he isn’t likeable. On the contrary. Young. A font of knowledge. Still, he’s all priest.’

‘A little holiness is always good for you,’ the taxi driver offered.

‘Bravo,’ he leaned forward, ready, ‘and you know what I think? That to become really holy every Italian and his brother should come to Rome with permission to strangle a Roman. Am I right?’

‘Well,’ the driver laughed uncertainly, ‘you mean Ministers or actual Romans?’

‘Optional. Whoever comes along.’

‘Rome is magnificent,’ the man objected with a grim sigh.