Giovanni Arpino: Scent of a Woman

Maybe she was afraid she’d said too much.

In fact: ‘For you, after all, it’s also a nice vacation,’ she added, looking away. ‘Five days plus two, as you say – in short, a week’s leave is something, to be sure. All the way to Naples, and no barracks.’

She was right, so I tried to utter another reassuring phrase.

‘Fine, fine,’ she interrupted, suddenly dejected, ‘now you’d better go in. There are strips of cloth right outside there. For polishing. With those heavy military boots of yours. It’s the door at the end of the corridor. But knock first. Always knock first, with him. I… it’s best if I stay here. God help me, something always slips out of this mouth of mine.’

She had already shut me out of her orbit. With an elbow planted on the table, she was now admiring the two flowers in the vase, the fingertips of her right hand reaching out to touch and examine petal after petal.

‘And never call him captain, always just sir,’ she warned again blankly, not looking at me.

‘I’ll call you Ciccio. Do you like that? I’ve always called all of you that. Or do you mind? Does it seem like a dog’s name? If you don’t like it, say so. Go ahead and tell me.’

He’d had me sit down and his pitted face was less than a few feet away. The dark glasses that wrapped around his temples and his gloved, rigid left hand gleamed faintly in the semi-darkness. His smile flashed readily, quickly erasing the effect of a face that only appeared smooth – and very pale – between the hairline and the top of his glasses.

From the window, beyond the curtain, faint street noises could be heard.

‘Warm? Did you have something to drink in there? Say something. Are you or aren’t you a student? So then, talk.’

He ended with a laugh.

‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

His right hand reached towards the table that stood between us and he took a cigarette from the pack. Before I could strike a match, those fingers swiftly moved to measure the distance between his lips and the tip of the cigarette, flicked on a lighter, flipped it shut, and like elegant elytrons fell back and closed around the gloved hand in his lap.

‘Do you walk? Do you know how to walk? I had a certain Ciccio last year who absolutely couldn’t at all. Hopeless. After an hour he was already puffing. I on the other hand have a great need to walk. I could wear out a horse. You all think you know how to move but when put to the test: it’s torture.’ He laughed again, blowing smoke.

‘I walk, yes. At the barracks…’

‘None of that barracks shit—’ he interrupted, raising a hand. ‘Or maybe so? Tell me, tell me.’

‘It wasn’t anything important.’ I retreated.

He doubled over in a burst of laughter until a coughing fit forced him to sit back up on the sofa. He wiped the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief.

‘Magnificent!’ he said then, showing his teeth. ‘We have a Ciccio who thinks. A prudent Ciccio. Of course, a student. I had another one, some time ago. Philosophy: a real pain in the neck. You don’t seem like a pain in the neck. I’ll bet you think you’re shrewd.’

‘Not always, sir,’ I thought I should answer.

‘Capricorn?’

‘No, Aquarius,’ I said.

His lips curled in a grimace.

‘You too, an Aquarian. This won’t work. Two Aquarians together make nasty sparks fly. I don’t want to know which decade. Not for any reason in the world. Your lips are sealed, never let your decade slip out.’

‘Fine,’ I replied.

He coughed weakly. ‘Aquarian. From Piedmont. Business and Economy no less. And since you’re here, a humanitarian on top of it. I don’t get you, Ciccio. But why should I have to understand you? We’re under no obligation to understand each other, right? For a week, five days plus two: all we have to do is be able to tolerate one another. And walk at a trot. Right?’

‘Right.’

‘No, not right,’ he shot back triumphantly. ‘You’ll see why. Nevertheless, tomorrow, at seven. Here. Then the station, then Genoa, Rome, Naples. Been there?’

‘Not to Naples.’

‘Well, now. Finally we’ll accompany this Business and Economy Aquarian to someplace new. I was beginning to give up hope.’ He smiled, the cigarette clamped between his teeth.

Every so often his voice cracked into more strident syllables and accents.

‘I didn’t know we would be stopping in Genoa and Rome. If I understood right,’ I went on.

‘Stopping? Who said we were stopping? If I feel like it. If I get the urge. To walk and have a good time. Five days plus two: what do you care how you spend them? Were you hoping to shave a little something off the total? Are there some little sluts waiting for you? Tell me, tell me.’

‘No. No one waiting. I was just saying.’

‘Ciccio was just saying.’ He began getting to his feet with a broad yawn.

He was extremely thin, a twisted wire inside a jacket and trousers which accentuated his thinness even more. His tendons burst out of his shirt collar like props supporting his head.

Calmly he crossed the room, opened a cabinet and a bottle, poured a large glass of whisky and emptied half of it immediately. He sighed deeply before downing it completely. From the surrounding shadows an enormous grey cat appeared, approaching him soundlessly. It stopped in front of him, its tail swishing slowly back and forth on the floor.

‘This is the Baron,’ he explained, setting the glass back down. ‘Some monument, huh? Six years old. A colossus. Castrated. He hates my guts but watch out if I’m not here, if he doesn’t hear my voice. And when I am here, he always tries to trip me. He’s never managed to, poor Baron.’

The animal studied him, its face turned up, an electric charge running through its tail.

‘Angry as usual, huh?’ he said, bending over stiffly. He petted the cat, scratching the back of its neck between the ears. ‘Ugly eunuch. Vicious rascal. Tomorrow I’m leaving. You’ll see, the nice lady will put you on a diet. No more chopped meat. Fat roly-poly.’

The cat quivered, fuming. In distress it escaped the hand and disappeared into a corner.

‘He understands everything. I insult him and he hates me. Or vice versa.’ He laughed. From somewhere a rather short, flexible bamboo cane had already appeared in his hand.

He smiled, suddenly sad, tapping his calf with the tip of the cane. ‘I won’t deny that I would have preferred a level-headed country boy from the mountains. But maybe you’ll be an exception. We’ll see. Stand up.’

Before I could step forward he held out the bamboo cane, stopping me. He brushed my shoulder lightly with the tip.

‘You’re small. What the hell. Little more than a dwarf. Some Aquarian you are, a fake. How can we manage to walk with two different compasses?’ He swore.

Twisting his mouth he ran over me again with the bamboo cane, from shoulder to knee. His gloved hand was supported between the top two buttons of his jacket.

‘Bah. Let’s give it a try.’

He opened the door to the corridor, immediately kicking and swearing as he sent the strips of cloth behind it flying. I moved closer and with a swift, sure move his gloved hand slid under my right arm. I felt the rigidity of those bones, the tense nerves, the stiff bulge of iron and leather that bound the prosthesis just above his wrist. The sudden tug nearly made me lose my balance.

‘Idiot. What are you made of? Sawdust?’ he said, stopping. ‘Where do you think you’re going? To a procession? Walking is walking. Look sharp!’

We dashed ahead through the corridor, steps in sync, our pace faster and faster, with my right shoulder planted against his arm, and the cane held out crosswise to gauge my knee. Every few feet I felt the bamboo tip waiting to check my moving leg. After three laps back and forth he stopped abruptly.