Giovanni Arpino: Scent of a Woman

‘I thought you meant what you said. Something to relieve this heat,’ I replied.

‘Not at all, genius. Aside from the fact that a deluge, the deluge, would always be good. Aside from that I meant the light, not the heat. The heat is only a result. It’s the light I was talking about,’ he explained, stressing each syllable, ‘light is silent, horribly silent. Whereas rain produces sounds. With rain, you always know where you are. Shut up at home or huddling in some doorway. Do you get it? Now don’t you feel sorry for me?’

‘Yes, sir. For that, yes,’ I forced myself to respond.

My head was spinning from those rapid-fire words of his. I could still hear them buzzing.

He had relaxed against the padded seat back, suddenly bored.

‘Right. Drop dead,’ he then said slowly. ‘I meant me, not you. Why do I bother talking. I should cut out my tongue.’

Again he cheered up in that wicked way of his, stuck his tongue out a little and with his right hand forming a scissor, made as if to snip it off, laughing the whole time.

He stopped and made a face.

Then: ‘Your hair, is it black?’

‘Not actually black. Brown.’

‘See how black mine is? A raven,’ he said proudly. ‘And women like black hair. It’s virile, they say.’

Suddenly he bent his forehead down.

‘Hey. No white hairs by any chance?’

‘Not even one, sir.’

I felt nauseous from the cigarettes I’d smoked and a little hungry too. I thought about the sandwich in my duffel bag, but I didn’t dare stand up, take it out and eat it there in front of him. He on the other hand took a slim metal and leather flask out of his breast pocket, unscrewed the cap, and drank.

‘Horrible at this hour.’ He shuddered. ‘If you see one of those railway bozos pass by, call him.’

He leaned his temple to one side to rest, but instead a range of expressions flitted across his face.

We passed through a succession of tunnels. The compartment was swept with currents of damp air. A large oily drop left a mark on my pants, another one grazed his forehead.

‘We’ll get off at Genoa. You can go nuts in here,’ he grumbled, still leaning sideways. ‘And you will also do me a blessed favour and take off your uniform. I mean, you must have civilian clothes.’

‘No, sir.’

‘I’ll buy you some.’ He snorted. ‘I don’t want to appear to be in the care of the nation’s charitable hands.’

He took out his watch, opened it and fingered it.

The sea reappeared on the right, a thin layer of metallic grey beyond a jumbled group of houses.

‘A conductor,’ I told him.

He raised his hand to stop him.

The man stepped forward with a long, sad face. A gold stripe ran around his cap. He gave a sympathetic smile.

‘Mr Whatever-your-name-is,’ he assailed him in a quiet cutting voice, ‘is it obligatory to listen to this crap? Have they passed a law requiring it?’

‘Pardon me, sir?’ The man blinked.

‘I repeat: this crap. This public nuisance.’ With his gloved hand he gave a sharp blow to the padded seat near his temple.

‘The radio, sir?’ The man figured it out.

‘Loathsome. Turn it off right now,’ came the reply.

‘Of course. But you see, you have to turn them all off. The controls are in the dining car and at this hour…’ the man stammered.

‘Do you want me to shoot a pistol in it?’ He stretched out his neck, his voice a strangled hiss. ‘What does turn it off mean? It means off . So hurry it up.’

‘Certainly, sir, but at this hour…’ The man was dismayed. He tried in vain to meet my eyes to find some support.

I felt myself blush. I remained rigid against the seat back.

‘I lost my eyes and a hand for the honour of this rotten country. Did I or didn’t I? Now you want me to lose my hearing too?’ he shouted suddenly.

He had become livid, two saliva bubbles at the corners of his mouth.

‘Right away, sir, right away.’ The conductor fled, his fingers touching his cap in an awkward salute.

Then he relaxed with pleasure, his right hand carefully assuring that the left one lined up precisely with the armrest. He was laughing quietly, in abrupt, self-satisfied little fits that finally erupted into short bursts of coughing.

‘Bastard that I am. The greatest one-of-a-kind bastard,’ he said, enjoying himself. ‘Who knows what he’ll tell them at home tonight, that poor devil.’

I leaned my head back myself to absorb the sounds from the velvet that I had not noticed until then. Barely a wisp of music came out, which I could hear only by pressing my ear forcefully against it. Until I heard nothing more.

Almost without being aware of it, I opened my mouth wide, savouring the syllables of the words I mutely swore at him.

‘Who knows how nervous the Baron must be.’ He cheered up again. ‘Without me in that house, they all immediately get addled.’

Taking a long curve, the train slowed up as it came into Genoa. The sun flashed off the junctions of the tracks, and off the sidewalks of the station. Dusty pots of geraniums clustered along a wall.

As I took down the suitcases, I saw him recompose himself, his hand feeling the knot of his necktie, then a handkerchief to wipe his forehead.

He gave me some final orders.

‘You’re not with me to be a porter. Get one outside: that’s what they’re there for. We’re off to the hotel right opposite the station. The one with the palm tree. One of the few that still has connecting rooms. You’ll have to plug your ears to sleep. You can hear a few thousand trains go by.’

Shortly after noon the wind picked up, sudden, torrid gusts that tore in, raising dense swirls of dust, paper, dry leaves, and ruffling the foliage of the trees in the middle of the piazza.

‘Marvellous!’ he said, delighted, taking in the first breath of air. But we soon withdrew inside the café.

Through the windows, beneath a sky that was becoming more lively, I saw a sliver of the harbour, a crane, the stern of a rusty ship. Tiny flags fluttered in a row, straining against the wind’s constant lacerations.

We had already been to a shop where, at vast expense, he had bought a pale blue suit and a shirt for me, a white linen suit for himself. They would be delivered to us at the hotel by that evening, after a few adjustments and stitching up the trouser cuffs. We had then walked swiftly down a sloping street, he cheerfully and silently waving the cane in front of him, his arm under mine, increasingly prodding me to step up the pace.

‘And this afternoon, a good barber,’ he said in a satisfied tone.

By now, the receipts on the table for the various drinks formed a kind of fan anchored by the ashtray. The waiter arrived with a fifth of whisky.

‘Are we eating at one?’ I asked. My head was spinning from the two vermouths I had drunk shortly before.

‘Right. Food. You must be hungry,’ he replied, jiggling the ice in his glass. ‘Who knows if I was that hungry when I was your age. I can’t remember a thing. No recollection. I’ll give you an hour’s leave. For now I’m not eating. Go to the counter and see if they have any decent sandwiches. But don’t have them brought to me: just look.’

I got up. There were sandwiches of various kinds under large plastic lids. Lettuce leaves peeked out from the edges. The young man behind the counter wore a stained, filthy apron. He was examining his hair, faithfully reflected in the bottles behind him. He glanced at me a second with that indifference that everyone displays towards a soldier: a transparent entity who doesn’t even disturb the view.

‘There are a few. Not very clean,’ I said when I returned.

‘A little dirt is the least of it in these parts. So then, scram.’ He sent me off, handing me some money: ‘Here. Eat. Go to the port, so you can take a look at the girls.’