Alberto Moravia - Two Friends

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heavy velvet curtains covered the windows. Like the two previous rooms, this one was furnished in a style that had gone out of fashion twenty or thirty years earlier. There were carpets, clusters of dark armchairs and couches — many them old and threadbare — a multitude of paintings on the walls, large vases, and imposing bric-a-brac on every surface. The room had an air of stale, worn-out luxury, empty and tired, as if it had been decorated according to tastes and a way of life that no longer existed. The air was murky, even though it was still early in the day. “It’s too dark in here, I can’t see,” Lalla exclaimed, traversing the room confidently and switching on the central chandelier, a bronze object with three arms. Sergio noted her self-assuredness, finding it disagreeable, and once again suspected that Lalla had been in this house before. Again, he banished the thought, convincing himself that it was impossible and absurd.

They sat across from each other in two deep armchairs positioned in a corner of the sitting room and waited, without speaking. The house was immersed in silence. The walls were thick and insulated; they could hear nothing from the tree-filled garden, except a vague scraping which seemed to come from downstairs. Perhaps someone was poking around in the cellar. It was hot, almost too hot, and, like the house, the heat felt old, stale, impure.

After a long wait they heard steps, and Maurizio appeared in a doorway at the other end of the room. Sergio observed something he had never noticed before: Maurizio had a slight limp, almost imperceptible but just pronounced enough to catch the eye. Even so, his gait was not without grace. He was tall, as Sergio noted bitterly, with wide shoulders, and a strong, dynamic presence. His face appeared slightly older than that of a twenty-eight-year-old man: it was somber, with large black eyes, a prominent nose, a dark mustache, and very white teeth. His features were striking, vigorously outlined. He had large hands and feet, and emanated an air of simplicity and energy. But underneath he was actually extremely reflective, prudent, and cautious, as well as extraordinarily pleasant, affable, and polished in his manner. This mildness was surprising in a man with such a vigorous, almost brutal appearance. He was like a giant who is able to hold a butterfly between two fingers without hurting it, Sergio reflected. He knew that he was attracted to these contrasts in Maurizio, that they were perhaps the principal reason for his attraction. Maurizio greeted Sergio and Lalla in a loud,

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booming voice that was also perfectly courteous, like a bear who has been trained to bow to guests. “Please forgive me for asking you to travel all the way to this gloomy old house. I thought we might be more comfortable here than at a café.”

“We’re very comfortable!” Lalla exclaimed, in a friendly tone.

“You’re limping,” Sergio said, out of the blue, as Maurizio crisscrossed the room, moving chairs so that they could sit more comfortably.

“Yes, I’ve had a limp since ’43,” his friend answered, casually. “I was shot in the leg.”

“Where?”

“In Africa … I was a Blackshirt,” he said, watching Sergio, as if to judge his reaction. Sergio couldn’t help crying out: “You were a Blackshirt?”

“Yes … I was eighteen … you know … the errors of youth,” Maurizio said, in a flippant tone that seemed in stark contrast with his rich voice. “I’ve never mentioned it … I was a true believer … and then I was a prisoner of war … I was held for three years.”

“Where?”

“In the United States.”

“So you were a Fascist,” Sergio repeated, almost in disbelief.

“A rabid Fascist … as Fascist as one can be … I idolized Mussolini, and I even admired Hitler.”

He invited them to another area of the sitting room: “There’s no light over there … it feels like one is being punished … Come sit here.” They moved to another group of armchairs and couches. Sergio sat in an armchair, and Lalla on the couch next to Maurizio. He crossed his legs. Sergio noticed a small detail: Maurizio was wearing a dark blue suit with pinstripes, like a stock character in a movie. Which character? The international swindler, the sharp-dressing shyster, the professional seducer.

Soon after they sat down, the butler returned with a large silver tray carrying a bottle of whiskey, a siphon, and an ice bucket, as well as olives and some crackers. In silence, he placed everything on the coffee table in front of them. Sergio noticed the massive, antiquated design of the silver tray. This was a bourgeois household, he reflected, but of the old-fashioned kind,

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typical of the Fascist period: wealthy, opulent, solid, massive. “I asked the butler to bring us some whiskey,” Maurizio said, pouring a glass. “I know that you and Lalla enjoy it, and I do too … but if you prefer coffee, tea, or a sweet liqueur, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“No, whiskey is fine,” Lalla said, smiling.

Maurizio poured the whiskey, picked up a few cubes of ice with the tongs and dropped them into the glasses, adding some seltzer water. Sergio noted that he did this with a surprising grace for such a bear-like man. He also noticed that Maurizio had poured himself a small amount of whiskey, about half what he served them. “Don’t you drink?” he asked.

“Not much. I drank too much as a young man, and now I have to be careful … I have trouble with my liver.”

He took a sip, refusing the cigarette that Sergio offered: “I don’t smoke.”

“You have no vices, it seems,” Lalla said in a frivolous tone that irritated Sergio. “You don’t drink, you don’t smoke …”

Maurizio did not respond. Sergio lit a cigarette in order to give himself a more nonchalant air. He felt that he had to move the conversation as quickly as possible away from this generic chitchat to the subject he had come to discuss. But he realized that his cheeks were once again burning and his heart was beating furiously. He picked up his glass, took a big gulp to steady his nerves, and said, looking straight into Maurizio’s eyes: “Shall we pick up our discussion where we left off the other day?”

Lalla began to laugh: “How single-minded you are … You haven’t even given him a chance to catch his breath …”

“No, no,” Maurizio said, in a friendly voice, “by all means, let’s talk … after all, isn’t that why you’ve come? Let’s continue where we left off the other day.”

Sergio took another gulp of whiskey and realized that he had almost finished the glass. Maurizio filled it again. Sergio thanked him in a vexed tone and began, “We had reached, shall we say, the negative side of the question … You were saying the other day that your social circle, which you have always been a part of and which you belong to by birth and by wealth — in other words the bourgeoisie — disgusts

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and bores you, and that you find it insufferable.”

“Exactly,” Maurizio said, very serious. “I find it empty, incompetent, corrupt, stupid, and quite worthless …”

“And you said that you’ve felt this way for a long time, but that you used to believe that all people were the same. Then, you realized that these defects were not human defects but rather social defects, and this realization led you to distance yourself from these people.”

“Yes.”

“And you said that this social circle does not deserve to survive … not because it is unjust for a few to control so much wealth but rather because it is unjust that these few, who have so much wealth, should be so contemptible.”

“Yes.”

“And what did I say to you?”

“You said that I was a Communist even if I didn’t know it.”