Giovanni Arpino - Scent of a Woman

She knotted and twisted the poor little chain around her neck.

‘If you want, I’ll speak to him. I can try,’ I said patiently.

She refused, shaking her head.

‘And those three idiots. Listen to them. Three birdbrains. They think they’re at the circus,’ she protested more wearily.

‘It’s late already,’ I said.

‘We’ll be here till daybreak. I assure you we’ll be here till morning,’ she replied with cold, stubborn anger. ‘I’d like to see them all annihilated. Like animals. Smashed, that’s what they are. Unfeeling drunks. Never would they recognize someone else’s sacrifice.’ The words spewed out like bullets.

‘Don’t overdo it. We know how it is, Sara. All he’d have to do is lift a finger…’

Her chin trembled, her shoulders dropped.

‘Lift a finger. Right,’ she replied stiffly. ‘I’d run. Am I or am I not a faithful dog? I’d have to run. But that’s all it means. The chill he managed to instil in me tonight! And I’ll tell you this: if I were wise, I’d thank him. For the help.’

I leaned on the railing to gaze at the silent city rolled out in lights, and the infinite inky stain of the sea. High above, a constellation glimmered faintly, lost in the mists; a short time earlier the muffled roar of a plane had faded in a drawn-out rise and fall.

‘It’s my fault, mine alone. It’s this defective head of mine. I should chop it off, toss it in the trash,’ she went on protesting, a bitter, more ironic tone in her voice, ‘incurable fool that I am.’

‘It’s always our own fault.’ I played along to keep her company. ‘We’re the ones who fabricate, add lustre to other people.’

‘You’re right.’ She breathed out, attempting a smile. ‘Him too, poor thing. What should he do? Give me a well-aimed kick, so I’ll get it once and for all? It’s here, here’s where there’s a screw loose.’ She twirled a finger at her temple.

Then: ‘If only my father were still alive, at least. He’d be able to understand. And your father? Is he living? Do you think about him?’

‘He is. But I never think about him. I don’t know why.’ I hardly knew how to answer her.

My mouth felt as though it were on fire from the sauces and the wine, but my brain still reacted lucidly to every stimulus: words, objects standing out vividly in the light, the corner of the piano, the girls’ knees as they sat on the couch.

‘Now look at them!’ she exclaimed. ‘They’re obscene. Not because of what they’re doing, but because of the slightest thing that drives them. Hollow reeds, empty heads.’

In the harsh light of the living room his right hand felt around, encircling and measuring, one after the other, the three ankles lined up in a row. The girls were laughing, first wiggling their feet, then bracing them. They had lost their spontaneity; a sudden awkwardness made their movements more confused and apprehensive.

‘A real woman is lord and master of her ankles,’ he pronounced, swaying precariously.

‘Do you hear him? Did you hear that? The rubbish that comes out of him. I could kill him,’ Sara whispered in the darkness, listening intently.

Michelina and Ines had crossed legs to fool him, holding their skirts tight around their knees in bursts of modesty. His thumb and forefinger formed a ring, measured, then uncertain, went back to check.

‘Guess, guess!’ the shrieks implored.

He knelt down as if sliding off the chair, and carefully fingered them, his thin back curved and his breath laboured.

In the end he gave up with a bored gesture and sat down again, no longer laughing.

‘Now I’m going back in and I’m going to slap them. All of them. First them, then him. A backhander like you’ve never seen,’ Sara said.

But she had already turned around, her elbows on the railing. A childlike yawn crumpled her face.

‘Sleepy?’

‘Ready to drop,’ she sighed, ‘but I’m not leaving. Not even if I fall dead asleep. Here I am and here I stay.’

‘You’ll see: in a minute he’ll be the one to come looking for you.’

‘I hope he doesn’t!’ She tried to laugh.

‘I’m going to look in at the lieutenant.’

‘He’s asleep. He’s always sleeping, that one. Overwhelmed by his own stomach,’ she replied wearily. ‘Come back soon, will you? Don’t you too leave me here stranded.’

Later on I found him in the bathroom. He was leaning on the edge of the tub, the water roaring out of the tap.

‘Is it Ciccio? Good thing. Sit down. Listen how nice it sounds. Water, water,’ he faltered, muddled, behind his spent cigarette. ‘Stay here. Let’s talk man to man.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Confusion. Chaos. Don’t you feel like your head too is full of ninepins?’

‘It’s late, sir.’

‘Always late. Never late. Late for what?’ He laughed weakly, flinching. He had lost all tension, his thin body swimming like a straw inside his jacket, his shirt rumpled. The rigid glove on his left hand no longer obeyed him, swaying as if it were unscrewed.

With a struggle he pried out his watch, handing it to me.

‘Here. A gift.’

‘Why, sir? I can’t.’

‘Don’t be a fool. Take it and put it in your pocket. Always. It’s the only rule.’

‘No, sir. Thank you, but no.’ I refused more firmly.

‘Because it’s gold or just because it’s special, for blind people?’ He laughed again, turning it in the palm of his hand.

‘You promised me a wallet. That’s fine. I’d be happy to have it to remember you by. But not the watch,’ I said.

He stuck out his lips, already bored. A purplish shadow hollowed out his cheeks; above his collar the folds of skin were pallid and sweaty.

He slipped out his wallet.

‘Here. Is that okay?’

I gave up arguing. I emptied the money and documents from each compartment, put them back in the inside pocket of his jacket. He put up with it with no reaction, his shoulders slack.

‘That girl—’ I began.

‘Who? What?’

‘Sara. In there. She deserves at least a word.’ I spoke loud enough to be heard above the noise of the water.

‘Sure. Of course. Why not?’ he nodded, swaying. ‘And then we’ll call the Baron. My poor Baron. All alone up north. You call too. No excuses.’

‘Of course, sir. But right now…’

‘I’m going, you matchmaker. I’m going. I can never say no to anything. “Matchmaker” isn’t as offensive as “pimp”. That’s why I didn’t say pimp. See, I didn’t call you that. Right?’ he laughed, his teeth parting a little. The cigarette fell. He picked it up, held it passively between fingers that seemed unable to grip.

‘Never keep the girls waiting. Divine creatures. Always knew it. A man knows.’

‘I wasn’t talking about the girls. Just Sara,’ I said firmly.

‘Sara. Right,’ he repeated reluctantly, wrinkling his nose.

‘Things are quieter now, the lieutenant is asleep, if you go and sit out on the terrace, Sara…’

‘Don’t bury me with words. For God’s sake.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘I’m going. You keep quiet. Everyone, quiet. And don’t turn this off. Leave me this water.’

He got to his feet, overcoming the tremor of his muscles, straightening out his neck and shoulders.

‘I’m a dead man, Ciccio.’

‘Sir…’

‘A dead man. What do you know about it? Shut up. A raving dead man.’ Rigidly he dragged one foot after the other in the hallway, his right hand stretched out in front of him. ‘A drunken dead man. Drunk and disorderly. Is the lieutenant asleep? That stuffed scarecrow. In a quarter, half an hour: everyone out of here. Got it?’

‘I’ll take the girls home. Don’t worry about it,’ I assured him.