Giovanni Arpino: Scent of a Woman

His mood changed, however, as we walked back to the hotel. I heard him whistling an old tune, the bamboo cane cheerfully chopping the air in front of us.

The sky had matured into a dark green; in the distance pink and grey walls could be seen sloping in terraces up the hill. But everything I saw seemed unfamiliar to my eyes, images of a world that wasn’t mine, even alien to mine, which disappeared soon afterwards without a trace.

He drank some more before going up, and I had to wait beside him at the bar. Hidden behind his newspaper, the guy behind the bar barely glanced at us.

Then: ‘Why tomorrow with that girl and not right now?’ I threw out. ‘Wouldn’t now be better? While we’re here. Tomorrow we have to leave.’

But he objected in a voice that had become faint and distant.

‘No, not tonight. Not at night. Then too, I’m not ready yet. I have to think about it. We’ll leave tomorrow night. But in the afternoon, with our new suits: a nice shot of life. Trust me Ciccio, it will do me good.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Upstairs, I walked him all around the room, which he auscultated and mastered in just a few minutes, testing with rapid strokes of his cane. The big bundle of new clothes lay on a chair, impressive in its impeccable wrapping.

‘We’ll open it and try them on tomorrow. No hurry,’ he said tiredly. ‘Is the suitcase on the table? That’s all for now. Go. I’ll call you in half an hour.’

I waited sitting on the bed, not daring to undress. When he called me, he was already in bed, in his pajamas, his gloved left hand on the folded sheet, the ashtray, watch and cigarettes close by.

‘You bought a newspaper. From Turin? Good. Sometimes it has the best marriage ads in the world. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable,’ he said. ‘Read, right now.’

I began: ‘Tall bank clerk, F, 39, from the north, athletic, good family, would like to meet a tall…’ I went on reading until the end of the two half-columns, not stopping despite the fact that my mouth was dry.

He smoked, listening attentively, occasionally letting out a brief laugh, an indecipherable mumble. He nodded, twisting his mouth, waved his hand in the air in ironic approval, false pity. Against the whiteness of the pillowcase, his face stood out as though bruised by the harsh light that flooded the room.

‘Cut out the one about the attractive, refined, 4-foot-9, artistic temperament,’ he said finally. ‘It’s definitely one of the good ones. In my suitcase, in the accordion pocket, there’s a large envelope. Put it in there. I have hundreds of them. I collect the most amusing ones. When you’re feeling down, there’s nothing better than having someone reread them all to you.’

I obeyed, and remained standing at the foot of the bed a moment. Through the wall the hum of the elevator found its way in. Voices rose and were swallowed away.

‘Go on to bed, Ciccio. Good night,’ he said ruefully. ‘Oh wait. I was forgetting my good deed.’

He had me bring him the folder containing envelopes and sheets of paper with the hotel’s letterhead.

‘Do you have a pen?’

He leaned the folder against his knees, holding it firmly with his gloved hand, unfolded a sheet of paper and after carefully feeling its edges with his right index finger, began writing. Slowly, one great big letter after another, none of them connected: an upper-case ‘S’, then an ‘h’, an ‘i’, a ‘t’…

The slanting stroke of the last letter almost ran off the sheet. ‘It’s for my aunt. You remember my cousin the aunt,’ he said handing me the folder. ‘Don’t be shocked. She’s used to it. She enjoys it. She pretends to get angry and then she complains to the Baron, who becomes hydrophobic. Let’s not forget to mail it tomorrow. I’ll dictate the address.’

As I wrote, he again broke into a laugh, but coldly.

‘Now go. Get some sleep. If you can.’ Idly lifting the gloved hand, he added: ‘I have to take this off. If only I could remove my head too.’

‘If you want I’ll help,’ I said.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Suddenly he blasted out, teeth clenched: ‘Most of all don’t be hypocritical. Because that’s what you are: a hypocrite. You have no life. You have no blood. A pile of ashes. That’s what your twenty years amount to. But I don’t give a damn. About you and all those like you. Incompetent fuckups, that’s all you are. With your idiotic Sunday-school compassion. Go on, go grab some zzz’s. By now I’ve got your number. I know you think you can get by by keeping your mouth shut. Get out of here. And don’t think you can go out now. If I find out you went out I’ll fix you good for the rest of your military service. Now scram. Reveille at eight.’

I was more stunned than hurt by that dizzying barrage. Dragging my feet, I took refuge in my room.

It was hot. The air was stale and sour; I opened the window. Down below lay a deserted alley sunk in darkness. The sounds of the city droned all around, sharper and more strident than those of the nearby station. My legs felt stiff but my mind was far from being able to sleep. Leaning on the windowsill, I smoked a last cigarette, trying not to think of what a nobody I was.

In the middle of the night I woke up, immediately gripped by a vague fear.

The light in the other room, still on, helped me make out the shape of a door, a closet. On tiptoe I leaned in to take a look.

He was asleep, elbows and knees in a chaotic jumble. Some kind of white covering was wrapped around the stump of his severed left arm. Without the protective shield of his dark glasses, his face was exposed as a mask of carnage.

The whisky flask was on the table, next to a vial. Sleeping pills, of course.

I coughed, banged a chair around. He didn’t move.

Trying not to look at that face any more, I stepped into the room. I saw a number of ties laid out in tissue paper in a box in the suitcase. At the bottom, underneath the shirts, a hard triangle. The revolver in its holster. Then, two bottles.

Behind me I heard his pinched breathing.

In the bathroom, his gear was all meticulously lined up along the edge of the sink: toothbrush and toothpaste, sponge cloth, cologne, a soap still in its wrapper, two brushes.

I sniffed the cologne, slipped a cigarette out of the box left on the table.

I felt petty and foolish, but also seized by a senseless, demented joy of spite and revenge. I did not, however, get up the necessary courage to open the package of new clothes. Next to the suitcase I saw his ID cards. I read the dates: thirty-nine years old. And the name: Fausto G.

I stood there for a moment, torn between the thought of making myself take another manly look at that face and the vain hope of erasing any memory of it now and forever.

I gave up the idea. Like a coward.

Back in my room, I sat down on the edge of the bed, the tasteless cigarette unappealing in the palm of my hand.

A steel-grey light was already faintly outlining the contours of the shutters. The double whistle of a train sank into the silence without a lingering echo.

I won’t be able to stick it out all the way to the end, I thought from some remote corner of my mind that still remained alert.

I lay back down on the still warm pillow, my eyes closed.

With the tip of the cane he lightly touched the cuffs of the trousers, first one then the other, going slowly all round to the top of the shoe.

‘Do they hang right? Short, maybe?’

‘Perfect,’ I replied.

He circled around. In the flood of sunlight from the window the linen seemed radiantly white.

With the dark tie, the glasses, his hand held stiffly against his stomach, he seemed unreal, a negative image of a photograph meant to mock the things of this world, to make them seem flat and remote.