Alberto Moravia - Two Friends

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bursts. When he had looked up at the sky before passing through the front gate of the villa, he had seen the white tufts of shells exploding in a straight line, then expanding slowly in the wind while others exploded, forming darker and denser areas here and there in the sky. They ran down an avenue, rapidly approaching the large whitish building of the museum. A little bit toward the right he could see the small door of the shelter, marked by a sign. The people ahead of them passed through the door and disappeared. Now the antiaircraft fire and siren stopped, and in the silence that ensued it was suddenly unclear why all these people were running. But just as Sergio was about to pass through the little door, he heard something that made him stop in his tracks and gaze up into the sky: a metallic, vibrating whir, surrounded by a duller, more insistent hum which grew louder and louder, threatening to fill the entire sky. “The planes,” he thought as he went inside.

The shelter was simply the crypt, or basement, of the museum. The small group of fugitives was now precipitously descending a spiral staircase with marble steps and a low, vaulted ceiling, rushing between thick walls. Finally they entered a semi-dark cellar, seemingly vast, with low, unfinished, vaulted ceilings made out of a material that looked like concrete, supported by enormous, rough-hewn pilasters. The cellar seemed to be only partly occupied by a small multitude. Sergio noticed the presence of many women and children, and quite a few men. The arches and pilasters formed shadowy alcoves, corners in which it was impossible for the eyes to penetrate the darkness. He could see dark archways which seemed to open onto hallways leading into other areas. Sergio and Maurizio could no longer see the others in their group and began to walk around the dim basement, amid the anxious, frightened people. Far from reassuring, the heavy, muffled silence which seemed to emanate from the enormous arches augmented the

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sense of imminent danger: those arches, however massive, did not appear at all solid, since they were built out of a crumbly material. He couldn’t help thinking that a single bomb would send the whole thing crashing down on their heads. Maurizio, as if guessing Sergio’s thoughts, pointed to one of the arches and said: “They call it a shelter … This stuff will collapse at the first impact … We’ll be crushed, like mice … It’s safer outside …”

“Do you come here every time the alarm goes off?”

“My mother comes, and when I’m at home, I come too to reassure her.”

“What is that case she carries under her arm?”

Maurizio answered lightly: “Her jewels … She has several million liras’ worth in there.”

Sergio said no more. He saw that the rest of the family — father, mother, sister, and governess — were approaching. The mother, who had always treated him with a slight haughtiness, as if she felt that this son of a government employee was her inferior, anxiously asked: “What do you think, Maltese? Will the war ever end? Will it be over soon? What do you think?”

There beneath the arches, Sergio noted that her voice did not sound exactly terrified, but rather like the echo of words pronounced in some other dimension. Being in that place was like walking in the circles of hell, as if they had already died and their souls lived on, speaking in earthly tones. “It’s impossible to know,” he answered, “but of course, one day it will end.”

With utter conviction, Maurizio’s rosy, conciliating, discreet, well-mannered father mumbled — more to reassure his wife than to reiterate an obvious truth—“Don’t worry, the war will be over soon … The Germans will win the battle for Russia; they’ll occupy the rest of the country, and then they’ll come here and drive out the Allies.”

Sergio peered over at Maurizio’s father and wondered

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whether he was joking. But he was quite calm and composed and didn’t seem to be joking in the least. It was a case of complete incomprehension and deafness, Sergio reflected, similar to Maurizio’s but more profound and almost comical in its absurdity. Sergio knew that Maurizio’s father was a businessman, and he seemed to remember that his business was investing in stocks. He asked, cautiously, “Do you really think that the Germans can still win the war?”

“Of course,” Maurizio’s father said calmly.

“I’m not so sure,” Maurizio’s sister interjected, but it seemed to Sergio that her tone was even more unrealistic than her father’s. By implying thought, her doubts gave her an air of obtuseness even greater than that created by her father’s absence of doubt. Desperate and terrified, Maurizio’s mother shifted her jewelry case from one arm to the other and said: “For all I care, the English can win, or the Germans … I just want someone to win so we can forget all this!”

“Don’t worry, darling, the Germans will win the war and we’ll all be fine … Don’t worry yourself,” Maurizio’s father said, affectionately, patting her on the back. Maurizio, who had said nothing until then, asked suddenly: “What about you, signorina , who do you think will win the war?”

He was speaking to the elderly governess. She answered quickly: “Signor Maurizio, I don’t understand such matters … I don’t even read the newspaper … If you told me that neither the English nor the Germans, but rather the Chinese, were going to win the war I would have to agree … After all, what can we do about it? It’s not up to us …” She went on; her tongue, which had been frozen in terror, suddenly loosened. Brusquely, Maurizio said, “Come on, Sergio …,” and turned to his family. “Sergio and I are going to take a look around.”

“I’ll come with you,” Maurizio’s sister declared. Sergio had noticed that she had been staring at him since their arrival, gazing at his face with a curiously intense, provocative gaze. He vaguely remembered

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rumors that circulated about her: that she was strange, perhaps crazy, and obsessed with only one thing, love. They set off down a corridor in silence. Maurizio walked ahead, his hands in his pockets, whistling quietly. Marisa took Sergio’s arm and whispered: “You don’t mind, do you? I’m so frightened.”

Maurizio touched the wall. “They’re oozing with moisture; they must be built into an embankment.” Without turning around, he added, “Sergio, do you have a cigarette?” Sergio said no, somewhat uncomfortably.

“I’ll go get some from my father,” Maurizio said, heading in the opposite direction. As if she had been waiting this whole time for her brother’s departure, Marisa pressed her body against Sergio’s side, whispering, “Don’t you remember me? I remember you perfectly … You are a bit younger than me … but you know … back when you used to come by to see my brother, five years ago I think it was … I fell in love with you … but you never noticed.”

They had reached the darkest point in the corridor. Sergio stopped, slightly agitated. Marisa touched his arm and searched for his hand: “You must be terribly unkind … You’re always so serious … You never smile.”

Sergio looked around. He had no feelings for Marisa, but the touch of her hand and the clear invitation it implied had an effect on him. A bit farther ahead there was a small red light, revealing a dark doorway. He stepped toward the light, but she held him back: “Wait a minute … I need to tell you something.”

“What do you need to tell me?”

“I can’t say it out loud … I’ll whisper it in your ear.”

He echoed her words, “In my ear,” his voice filled with doubt. He could just make out a dark figure standing in the doorway, vaguely illuminated by the dim red light. It looked like a feminine form, but he could not make out the face. He could feel someone