Alberto Moravia - Two Friends

“Why are you so worried about being on time?” she said, without turning around. “He can wait … You’d think he was your lover.”

“What nonsense … I can’t stand being late, that’s

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all.”

“But sometimes you make me wait for hours,” she said slowly, still combing her hair.

“That’s different.”

“You should always be on time … The truth is that your feelings for Maurizio are different.”

“What do you mean by that?”

She paused for a moment and then said, distractedly: “If I weren’t convinced that you love me and that you are normal, I would think that you were a little bit in love with him.”

“What a stupid thing to say.”

She finished arranging her hair in silence and went over to the bed and sat down, pulling a plastic bag out of the dresser drawer. It contained a pair of new stockings. “I bought them just this morning,” she said, leaning over to pull on one of the stockings. “You can’t say that I’m not doing my best to do honor to your dear Maurizio.”

Sergio said nothing. Lalla finished putting on her stockings, then a slip, and finally picked out her best dress, the one she wore on special occasions. For some reason, this irritated Sergio, and he protested: “Why are you wearing that dress?”

“It’s the only decent one I have.”

“You usually wear it to parties,” he said, bitterly. “This isn’t a party … Why don’t you dress normally?”

“Why should I?” she said, staring at him. “Maurizio has invited us to his house … I should do my best to look presentable.”

“He’ll get the impression that you’re intimidated and honored by his invitation.”

She looked at him for a moment with a dreamy expression. “Why do you say that?”

“Because … I don’t want to give the impression that this is a big event … an honor.”

“Who wants to give that impression?”

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“You, with all your fineries and that dress.”

“Do you know why you’re saying this?” she said, sharply.

“Why?”

“Because despite your Communist ideals, you feel socially inferior to Maurizio … That’s the truth … and you’re trying to project your feelings onto me. But I don’t feel inferior in the least.”

Her answer irritated Sergio even more, almost as if it contained a grain of truth; but he quickly examined his conscience and concluded that she was wrong: “Don’t be silly. Why should I feel socially inferior? What kind of Communist would that make me?”

“I don’t know … that’s your business.”

He paused. Then, in a precise, almost scientific tone, he explained: “As you know, we are very poor, and he is very wealthy. I don’t feel inferior in any way, please believe me … but it’s important to me that he not feel superior to us, and if he sees you arrive all gussied up for a simple, friendly conversation … If it were a party, at his house or elsewhere, I would be the first to say that you should make an effort … Elegance is important, and dressing well for a festive event is a serious matter … I’m not as stupid as you think … but I don’t want him to get the wrong idea about us … that’s all. I’m also thinking of him, because I have great affection for him, not only about us.”

Lalla listened carefully, and answered, somewhat bitterly: “You think he’s stupid, but he’s not … All right, I’ll take off this dress and wear the oldest, most worn-out one I have … the one I wear when I teach.”

“No need to go overboard … Then he’ll think we want to make a spectacle of our poverty, and that would just be another way of revealing a feeling of inferiority.”

“What dress would you like me to wear, then? The selection is quite limited, after all. I only have three dresses.”

“Just wear the one you’re already wearing,” he said, moodily. “Do whatever you want … but let’s go, shall we?”

This time she said nothing and simply shrugged.

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She put on her usual brown coat. Drily, she said, “Let’s go.”

They traversed the dank cooking smells lingering in the hallway and came to the foyer. When they were on the stairs, he felt a wave of disconsolate passion and took Lalla by the waist: “Are you still angry with me?” he asked.

She looked up at him. “No … why?”

“Because of what I said about the dress.”

“Of course not, don’t be silly.”

Sergio felt mortified, though he did not quite know why. His eyes welled with tears. He whispered, “I’m at a difficult time in my life, you know that … I need you to love me very much.”

“I do.”

They separated and began to go down the stairs. Now that the turmoil of the moment had passed — a turmoil he could not explain — Sergio had become his lucid self again. He knew that this invitation was important and realized that in the duel he was about to fight with his friend, every false step could be fatal. He reviewed his arguments in his mind, as he did before speaking at Party meetings, reexamining his logic and approach, and anticipating his friend’s counterarguments. Just as when he prepared to speak in public, he felt lucid, determined, cool, and self-assured. He knew that this coolness and lucidity, mixed with a touch of cynicism, formed a kind of streamlined, utilitarian structure planted squarely upon a deep foundation of enthusiasm, hope, and faith: his enthusiasm, his hope, and his faith in the Communist Party and its destiny. One could build any kind of edifice upon such a foundation, he reflected, no matter what materials one worked with. The foundation was solid and sound.

He was so distracted and lost in thought that he almost forgot where they were, standing at the bus stop, waiting for a bus to carry them through the city. His actions had become almost automatic; his mind was submerged in thought, like an atmosphere that did not thwart action but nevertheless impeded his awareness of his actions. A while later they were

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walking down an empty boulevard with villas and gardens on either side, in an elegant neighborhood, one of the oldest in the city. “Here it is,” Lalla said, pointing at the number on the gate.

“You’ve been here before,” Sergio said with a start, surprised by her certainly.

“No, I just know the number,” she responded simply.

It was a black iron gate, bolted with an iron bar on the inside. Tall, robust trees, revealing the garden’s age, protruded above the pillars of the boundary wall, which were surmounted by decorative urns. Lalla reached out a gloved hand and pressed the button of the gleaming brass doorbell. Sergio looked at her and then turned to gaze into the street. It was truly an elegant street; all around there were high walls with tall trees looming over them, and the façades of a few imposing villas. Cars were parked here and there, all of them luxury models. It was a gray, cloudy day, and humid; it had been raining, and there were large puddles on the sidewalks. The dark, looming sky seemed to threaten more rain. “A mild, average day,” he thought, mechanically, and for some reason he could not explain, he shuddered, as if struck by a bad omen. He realized that the sangfroid he had enjoyed during their long walk, and which had made him almost forget his task, was now submerged beneath a feverish, dreamlike ardor. His cheeks were burning; his heart was pounding. “What the hell is wrong with me?” he wondered.

“What did you say?” Lalla asked, coming closer.

He had said these words aloud. This vexed him. “Nothing … I didn’t say anything.”

“Yes you did … you said: What the hell?”

“I didn’t say anything. I was just thinking aloud.”

The gate opened and a butler in a striped jacket invited them in, stepping aside to let them pass. Sergio and his lover followed the butler through the garden. As they could guess from the tall trees looming over the wall, it appeared to be very old, filled with mature bushes, trees, and thick creepers. Once they were actually in the house, Sergio’s heart began to beat normally again, and his cheeks no longer burned. He was glad: once again, he felt cool and in control. They entered a vast anteroom decorated with wooden chests and weapons mounted on the walls, then another, and finally, they arrived in a large sitting room. It was dark inside: the walls were hung with rich fabrics;