Giovanni Arpino: Scent of a Woman

He rolled his shoulders again, felt the edges of the sleeves from which the cuffs of his blue shirt peeped out.

‘Sure I don’t look like an ice-cream man? A nurse?’ he stood stiffly, satisfied.

‘It looks very good on you. Really.’

He made a face.

‘Yeah. But a linen suit should be a little rumpled. It’s the rule.’

He found the bed again, and lay back on it shaking his hips vigorously, stretching and bending his knees as he pedalled rapidly.

‘How about now?’ he said, back on his feet.

‘It looks good.’

‘That’s all you can say,’ he protested sceptically.

‘But it looks fine. What else should I say?’

‘Let’s go,’ he decided. ‘You’ll be glad too, without that usual shapeless uniform. Go on, go. Let’s get out of here.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He only appeared calm and cheerful. The sudden tightening of his mouth, the deliberate kindness in his voice betrayed his anxiety. ‘A drink. Some coffee. And we’re ready for anything.’ He laughed as we waited for the lift.

A quarter of an hour later we were going up a narrow street that ran parallel to the port, lined with dark dank bars, cave-like shops, and eateries that smelled of burnt oil. On the ground, shrivelled greens and scraps of paper left over from the morning market; overhead a strip of sky angling between the profiles of the rooftops. Here and there a radio conveyed voices and music from darkened window openings. An old woman with a cluster of camera equipment started to step out of a doorway, studied us warily and in the end decided to remain under cover, hunched and twisted like a root.

‘Anything?’

‘Not yet. Only two. Hideous,’ I replied.

‘Maybe it’s a bad time. People are eating. You think we’re here too early?’ he wondered.

It didn’t seem like a real question; I kept quiet.

He stopped abruptly.

‘Listen. I don’t like this. It makes no sense,’ he said. ‘Find me a café. I’ll wait for you. You scout around. Then come back and get me. Okay?’

‘Maybe that’s best.’

I left him at the bar of a café. Behind his cigarette he was sweating, as if his strength had given out.

‘No haggling over money. And tell the truth,’ he reminded me, his breathing still shallow.

I walked the whole length of the street, my pace quickening with the irritation that was spurring me on. From the precipitous alleyways that plunged dismally towards the port on my right, glimpses of a pale, distant sea could be seen.

Among the numerous cafés, I chose one from which loud blasts of music came; three or four girls appraised me as soon as I walked in. None of them seemed right. I waited until one of them made an overture.

Suddenly my irritation vanished, I felt practical and determined. Clearly I was resolved not to make a mistake.

‘I’m telling you: she came down purposely. Her name is Mirka. The usual names. Her friend went to call her and she came down to have me take a look. She’s waiting, right now. A doorway down the street, about twenty yards.’

‘The one from yesterday? Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure,’ I lied.

‘Okay, okay. Let’s go.’ He sighed wearily.

He didn’t say another word until we had climbed up two flights of a very narrow staircase. Muffled voices came from beyond the walls.

‘I had to promise her a bundle,’ and I told him the figure.

He brushed me off with an angry gesture.

‘Here it is. It’s the only door,’ I stopped.

‘Just a minute.’ He fretted anxiously; from his pocket he pulled out a white cotton glove that he quickly slipped onto his left hand, nervously smoothing each finger.

‘Am I okay? Tell me.’

‘Of course. Sure.’

‘Not true. It’s too hot,’ he objected, frazzled. ‘Goddamn handkerchief, why won’t it come out? Ring the bell. What are you waiting for? Ring it.’

He fumbled, trying to wipe away the perspiration.

A woman opened the door, giving us a hard look. Her odour overwhelmed us.

‘Will you wait here?’ she said to me, pointing to the kitchen. Then, raising her voice: ‘Barbara, where are you Barbara? Come and keep this fine gentleman company.’

I sat at a table in front of a shiny gas burner. Rays of sunlight struck the kitchen’s metal appliances. I heard a thud from somewhere: it must have been him bumping into some piece of furniture.

An eye peered at me from the balcony, then the partial face of a shirtless little girl.

She came forward suspiciously, her thin arms clasped tightly behind her back.

‘You didn’t bring me any ice cream,’ she said.

‘I didn’t know you’d be here!’ I laughed. ‘I’ll bring it next time. Tomorrow.’

‘That’s what they all say, but if my Mama doesn’t buy me ice cream I never have any,’ she protested, pouting.

She rocked solemnly on her feet, then decided to trust me and came over to the table, resting her chin and fingertips on it. She smelled of talcum powder.

‘In September I’m going to see the lizards. Did you know that?’

‘Really?’

‘Really. I don’t tell lies.’ She went on, ‘In September we’re going away, to the seashore, but a sea that’s far away, not this dirty one. We’re going to a place with walls full of lizards.’

‘Good for you. And what will you do with the lizards?’

‘Nothing!’ She laughed. ‘You can’t catch them!’

‘Sometimes you can. Catch one, tie a string around it and take it for a walk.’

‘You’re silly,’ she said angrily. ‘Lizards don’t let you tie them up. They’re not dogs.’

‘Right. That’s true.’

‘Don’t tell Mama I called you silly. You won’t tell her, will you?’

‘No.’

‘Cross your heart?’

‘I swear.’

Suddenly friends, and to make it up to me, she began rolling her eyes, bobbing her head.

‘If you give me fifty lire, I’ll show you my scab,’ she went on, lifting a knee that sported a Band-Aid.

‘You shouldn’t uncover it, otherwise it won’t heal,’ I told her.

‘Today in the courtyard I uncovered it twice. For ten lire. But the second time a boy ran off without giving me the money after he saw it. I won’t play with him any more.’

I lit a cigarette and she immediately ran around the kitchen fussing until she found a tiny ashtray.

‘Mama yells if she finds a mess,’ she explained, leaning her chin on the table again, ‘and you know what she says? That men are all foolish bastards.’

‘I see.’

‘She says it all the time. All bastards. And another thing she says: you’re Barbara but when you grow up you won’t need a barber . How funny.’

‘That’s a nice name: Barbara.’

‘I like Maria better. You know what? After I die I’ll be a Madonna. But the real Madonna, not a statue.’

She began scratching her stomach delicately with a fingertip.

‘A mosquito bit me last night. Here. Can you see it?’ she asked, sticking her tummy out.

‘No.’

‘Well, it bit me. When they bite me, Mama puts cream on me. It’s cold; it makes me shiver.’

‘Don’t scratch it.’

‘I will too!’ She stuck out her tongue.

‘If you do that you won’t become a Madonna,’ I said.

‘I will too become one,’ she protested stamping her foot, ‘after I die. When are you going to die?’

‘I don’t know!’ I laughed.

‘You don’t have a beard. You’re not old enough to die.’ She thought it over.

I reached out my hand to pat her, but she quickly jumped back.

‘I’ll perform lots of miracles,’ she shrieked. ‘As soon as I’m named Madonna, you’ll see how many miracles I’ll perform.’

‘Good for you.’