Alberto Moravia - Two Friends

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that Sergio attributed to him, or even a hidden desire to adopt them, did not completely close the door. On the contrary, he lured Sergio on with an attentive attitude that was both facetious and evasive. That winter, Sergio felt particularly oppressed by a sense of inferiority toward life and other people, a feeling that had tormented him since childhood. Even more than in the past, he felt that he needed some sort of personal victory in order to believe in himself and in his own destiny, a destiny that had never seemed clear. Almost without realizing it, his desire to find affirmation became increasingly focused on one specific goal: converting Maurizio to Communism. To compensate for his own shortcomings, he had a tendency to consider the life of the Party as his own, its victories as his. While he felt that without the Party he would be nothing, he was continually reassured that at least he could say to himself: “I am a Communist, and this is already a lot.” The idea of winning Maurizio over to the cause pleased him to no end: firstly, because he was vaguely worried by his attraction to Maurizio and thought that once his friend became a Communist this attraction would become more licit and justified; and secondly, because Maurizio’s conversion would reaffirm his own ties to the Party, which was an integral part of his life and had increasingly become the very matter of his life itself.

None of this was clear in his mind, however, and the only thing he was sure of was the obsessive, driving, and omnipresent desire to guide Maurizio toward his way of thinking. He felt that he needed this victory, or rather that the Party needed it — given that he and the Party were one and the same — and to this end, he carefully studied the best means to achieve his goal, with all the shrewdness and rationality he could muster. Even though he was convinced that Maurizio was ripe, like a fruit about to drop from the branch, he realized that it would not be easy, in part because of this ripeness. It was perhaps easier to convert an enemy in a moment of weakness, by simply vanquishing his point of view, than a sympathizer; a sympathizer could always defend himself from taking the leap with the comforting alibi of his sympathy.

Sergio’s almost obsessive desire to convert Maurizio

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to his fervently held ideas was no secret. Sergio had a girlfriend, Lalla, with whom he had been living for almost two years. Sergio had spoken to her about his aspirations regarding Maurizio from the very beginning of their relationship. As for Lalla, though she was not a Communist, she was able to comprehend and appreciate Sergio’s ideas; all of their friends were Communists, and she herself professed to be a sympathizer. After a few discussions with Maurizio, Sergio told his lover that he felt that if he could not convince Maurizio, he could no longer consider himself a man. This desperate declaration expressed the anxiety and insecurity that Sergio felt at the time. One day, after going to see Maurizio, Sergio confidently told Lalla that he felt close to his goal. She observed, calmly: “In my opinion you’re wasting your breath … He’ll never come to a decision … Just wait and see.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked, surprised. They were at a café downtown, just the two of them at an isolated table, after having dinner at a modest trattoria.

She did not answer him right away. “You know,” she said, “sometimes a large boulder sits precariously on the edge of a precipice … It looks like it would only take the slightest push to send it tumbling down … but in reality it is so perfectly balanced that nothing in the world could make it fall. Maurizio is like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, “that Maurizio sympathizes with our ideas … he does not approve of the world he was born into … he can see its faults … he understands that there is no other way … and yet, he won’t cross over to our side.”

She seemed so convinced that Sergio suddenly had an inkling that she knew more about Maurizio than he did. Perhaps Maurizio had discussed the situation with her. After a short pause, he asked, “Why do you say that? Has Maurizio said something to you?”

“Of course not,” she said calmly, “he hasn’t said anything … it’s just a hunch.”

“I have the opposite impression.”

“Well, I guess we’ll see who’s right.”

She didn’t seem to attribute much importance to the matter, Sergio reflected, but even so, he was irritated by his lover’s tone. It was a sign that she lacked confidence in him and did not respect him. He changed the subject: “So, what shall we do? … Do you feel like going to the movies?”

Without looking at him, she answered: “No, I don’t

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feel like it … In any case, we can’t afford it … For once, let’s just go to bed.”

Once again he noticed the lack of enthusiasm and confidence reflected in the dryness of her tone. Again, he felt irritated, as he always did when she complained about their poverty, even indirectly: “You’re mad at me because I don’t make enough money … You wish I were rich, like Maurizio.”

“That’s not true,” she said, with a note of resignation, “you know I like you just as you are …”

“So why are you using that tone of voice?”

She hesitated: “Well, yes, to be honest I’m a bit tired of it all: of eating half portions at Paolone’s, of mending my own stockings, of looking for work and not finding it, of living in furnished rooms, of standing in line for the bathroom in the morning, of counting every penny … What’s wrong with that? But it’s not your fault.”

Sergio said nothing. He was intensely irritated, but he realized that it was unreasonable to take it out on Lalla. After a moment, he said, “Let’s go home.”

“Yes, let’s go.”

They left the café and headed down the narrow streets of central Rome toward the alley where they lived. Sergio walked next to his lover, who was almost a head taller than he. She was wearing a light, threadbare brown coat, clutching her collar to protect herself against the wet, weak February wind. He looked at her legs. He could see the spots where she had mended her stockings. Her calves were plump and round. She hadn’t mentioned the state of her shoes, but it surely annoyed her even more than her stockings; they were worn out, deformed, muddy, and extremely old. Lalla walked briskly, crumpling her face in the wind. She had a mane of fine, frizzy hair; beneath it her face looked tiny, with a delicate nose, childlike lips, and big, <���…> eyes under a prominent forehead. Her neck was long and her whole body was strangely proportioned; she was not beautiful, but there was something expressive about her. Her shoulders were narrow but she had a large, sagging chest, a thin waist accentuated by a wide, shiny belt, and ample, even opulent hips. Once again he said to himself that she reminded him of a strangely elegant, awkward reptile from a prehistoric age, with a long, rippling neck, a tiny head, and a powerful, massive

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lower body. Rather than beautiful, he reflected, she was profoundly attractive. Lalla walked a step ahead of Sergio and he observed her, until finally they reached the doorway. Sergio pushed open the door, which was always unlocked, and they climbed up four dark, dank floors in silence. Lalla moved quickly, undulating like a reptile, and he could not help thinking of all the staircases he had climbed in his young life, walking behind one prostitute or another. This thought vexed him; he was often vexed by his own thoughts when they were not as he wished them to be. He wanted to respect Lalla and was convinced of his affection and esteem for her. Sometimes he suspected that such thoughts were precisely what Catholics referred to as the Devil: thoughts, feelings, reflections that rise to the surface despite our better nature, against our will and unworthy of us. When they reached the landing Sergio reached forward and opened the door as Lalla waited, out of breath. The foyer was illuminated and they tiptoed down the hall to their room, as usual. Lalla went first and turned on the light. Sergio walked to the corner where the coatrack stood and removed his raincoat and shoes, and then sat down on a rickety armchair near the yellowing curtain.