Giovanni Arpino - Scent of a Woman

‘At the end, on a corner, there should be a certain bar with large comfortable armchairs. One hundred and thirty brands of whisky. Heaven!’ He smiled contentedly.

We had let ourselves flow along with the crowd on the sidewalk, in a surge of gentle indolence. The expanse of sky, the profusion of colours, the dark lush border of a distant garden got under my skin, making me feel more alive and raring to go.

I found the bar. It was quiet and sombre, with those same armchairs, but he wanted to sit outdoors, where he had a great time discussing alembic still blends with an old waiter. Indulgent words and ironies flowed in an exchange of flowery expressions.

Then: ‘Let’s get out of here. No frou-frou restaurants tonight. A plain old hole-in-the-wall trattoria. With guitars. Just what we need.’ He was enjoying himself, weighing his glass.

A glimmer of a smile gave him the affected air of a portrait from the past.

‘Do you really think you’re a rock? That’s what you said before.’ I put our familiarity to the test.

‘Of course not. I never think. That’s the secret: don’t think about anything, just laugh. All one big continuous laugh. Don’t get tedious on me, Ciccio.’

He flicked the ash from his cigarette with a sweeping arrogant gesture.

‘But did you really want him with us in Naples, your cousin the priest?’ I persisted.

‘Oh my God, I said it while knocking on wood. What am I? A good deed doer?’ He drained his glass with relish. ‘Still: if I really wanted to do a charitable deed I should fire a shot into that cranium of his. A sure thing. In the state he’s in, the unfortunate bastard, it would be a liberation. Don’t you think so?’

‘No, sir.’

I was prepared to endure his laughter or some type of scorn, but strangely enough he responded with a carefully considered, wary tone of voice.

‘You’re right. Then too maybe it’s all pretence. Not that he’s putting on an act, the poor reverend. He doesn’t realize he’s pretending. But his suffering is still in his mind. You, of course, don’t believe in the soul. Whether it exists or not, it’s certainly not the soul that does us harm.’

It was Sunday. I wasn’t surprised at his decision to put off our departure until the following day. As he coughed, leaning over the sink, I read the newspaper out loud. First the important headlines, the horoscope, last of all the classified ads in the health and beauty section which listed the addresses and phone numbers of prostitutes. At certain exaggerated adjectives, allusions to lavish attention, luxury and confidentiality, the welcome to buzz the intercom any time from 10 a.m. to 11 p.m., he would straighten up from the sink racked by wheezing laughter, immediately stifled by renewed coughing.

He stepped out a moment, half hidden by a large towel, to tell me, ‘Don’t worry. I don’t feel venereal today. You won’t be forced to associate with risqué company.’

He was extraordinarily modest. He would withdraw to the bathroom even just to put on or take off his shirt. He always deftly managed to conceal his left arm when it wasn’t covered up. And his tie: he could knot it in three moves.

‘Don’t you want me to read you anything else? Politics?’

‘What does politics have to do with me? Does it guarantee me the end of the world? No. So that’s enough.’

From the bathroom he dictated the morning’s plans: first a barber, then a walk to the zoo, finally an outdoor restaurant.

‘Provided we don’t come across a sung mass. Don’t you love them? To me they seem perfect. Even without being able to understand the words.’

I had slept too much. The hot, still air kept me from shaking off that heavy feeling. The acidic wine we’d been drinking in a tavern until late the night before was turning my stomach sour.

Outside, the angle of the sun was brutal. The stones reflected too much light. The ornamental work on a house throbbed painfully in my eyes. The desire for Rome, the sense of opulence enjoyed the night before, had been spoiled, turned to toxic fatigue in my body.

‘C’mon, walk. Good God! Let’s go, buddy. Stand up straight. You feel like a limp rag,’ he prodded me.

The avenue stretched straight ahead of us glazed by the sun, with tall, slender trees along the sidewalks. It was deserted, just a few clusters of young people scattered in front of a café, their mocking voices raucous. The houses followed in a row, all the same, their windows shuttered. The bamboo cane clanged blithely against the shutters over and over again.

‘And I complain about Rome. Bastard that I am. Nothing but jealousy. It’s open to you, Rome is. Feel it? Barbarian or not. What a day. Good for the soul,’ he said impulsively.

He settled down in front of the lion cage. Gentle gusts of wind raised clouds of dust from the paths. Beyond some shrubs, the outlines of taller cages could be seen. From a pine tree came the shrill screeching of birds.

He took a deep whiff.

‘What’s he doing. Sleeping?’

‘Every now and then he opens one eye,’ I told him.

‘He doesn’t stink,’ he said resentfully, ‘and what I really like about animals is their gamy odour.’

He nudged me with his elbow, handed me the cane.

‘Try to stir him up. Get him angry. Christ, let’s hear you!’ he commanded, irritated.

I held out the cane, shook it a few inches from the bars. The lion opened its jaws wearily without even breathing. His upper lip fell back slowly, docilely over his canines. He lowered his head again, winking.

‘He won’t budge,’ I said.

‘Goddamn world. I bet they stuff them with pills in this place. They must even kill off their fleas with flea-powder,’ he said angrily, stamping his foot. ‘That’s why he’s just lying there like a prick.’

There wasn’t a soul along the path. The squeals of children reached us from afar mingled with the barking of seals. A yellow balloon rose up above the treeline, floating in the sunlight. I stood, flung my arms wide, let out a cry. The lion, bored, slowly looked away.

‘What time do they feed him?’

‘It says 11.30.’

‘Too late. I want to hear him now. Right away!’ he objected.

I kicked at the wooden railing that separated us from the bars; I tried to lean closer. The lion shifted his haunches with deliberate voluptuousness, his head motionless, his gaze lost in space.

‘Big?’

‘Big, yeah. Male. With a dark mane. From Kenya. His name is Sam.’

‘Fuck,’ he muttered.

At a corner of the railing were two signs with descriptions and warnings.

‘I’ll give you a good whipping, Sam,’ he threatened through clenched teeth.

He leaned forward just a little, his right hand firmly on the railing, brandishing his wooden glove.

The lion shifted his gaze from his distant target, and stared at him with a first quick gasp. From the depths of his lungs he drew a viscid breath that gradually grew into panting, his black eyes flashing.

In a bound the lion was against the bars, his mane bristling. He roared, bits of straw hanging from his pale belly, his claws slashing the air ferociously, only to end up grating on the iron.

‘Friendly. You see?’ He calmed down immediately, nodding happily at the groans that now rumbled forth, muffled by the animal’s agitated pacing.

‘Smell that? You can even smell his odour now.’ He sniffed.

The lion circled around two or three times, panting, before curling up again in the most remote corner of the cage, his teeth still bared.

‘Let’s go,’ he took my arm again. ‘Of course the gorillas are more easily riled. There’s nothing like the gorillas.’

‘Spaghetti for you. Then stuffed octopus. For me, meat. Meat soaks up the whisky,’ he decided.