Alberto Moravia - Two Friends

He did not respond, realizing that if he spoke he would reveal his dissatisfaction at this carnal, affectionate resolution. He held her close. But at the same time he knew that he was not satisfied; he knew that they would make love and that after their embrace

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Lalla would press herself against him and fall asleep, content. And that later, still tired and lazy, they would get out of bed, wash, dress, and go out. And that the streetlamps would shine on them as they walked side by side to their usual café, down the muddy streets of their neighborhood. This predictability cast a bitter pall over their embrace, and yet, as Lalla had said, what else were they to do? Lalla led his movements, pressing her body against his, trapping his legs between hers, teasing and tormenting him with her tireless, restless hands. “It’s still early,” he thought, “I need to slow things down, otherwise what will we do later?” This thought seemed to capture their situation more completely than all his subtle, complex conjectures. He was like a man with only a few coins in his pocket; once they were spent, there would be nothing left. “Not yet, Lalla, wait,” he said.

She did not respond, pressing against him even more tightly, breathing heavily through her nose and mouth. For a long time, they remained locked in a tight embrace. Then she began to move again, rubbing her body against his restlessly and insistently. Believing enough time had passed, Sergio decided to take her, as Lalla clearly desired. They drew out their lovemaking as long as possible — they embraced, rolled around, intermingled on the bed. Finally, he moaned deeply. She responded from the shadows, with a long, satisfied, loving, dolorous moan. They lay there in a heap, one on top of the other, and then, like two lifeless bodies separated by frost, fell away from each other and lay side by side on the bed.

Later, Sergio shook off the somnolence brought on by their lovemaking and got up. Lalla was asleep, or so it seemed, but the shadows made it impossible to see whether her eyes were open or closed. He looked over at the clock on the dresser: six thirty. Four hours had passed. Four hours, he could not help thinking, that another man might have spent going to the movies or the theater or the stadium. He remembered what Lalla had said: “Love is our entertainment … like all poor people,” and he could not help thinking that she was right. Making as little noise as possible, he quickly got dressed, still ruminating on her words. He asked himself whether he really loved Lalla, and could not help thinking that if love means creating an idealized transfiguration of the beloved, then what he felt was certainly not love. Sergio had very precise

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notions about love; one could even say he had a theory. To his mind, every epoch had a central concept, an idea upon which man focused his attention. In the past, love had been the focus, and for this reason it had been imbued with man’s best most varied qualities. Like a flood, love had spilled into areas that were not, strictly speaking, its purview: politics, art, death, war, and peace. But now the central idea of life was politics; love, deprived of its embellishments, reduced to its essence, and humbled, had wasted away, lost its mystery and richness, and been reduced to its barest form: the sexual encounter. Nothing could be done about this, he thought as he watched Lalla sleeping. Man’s imagination, intelligence, and fervor had moved elsewhere, and what had once formed the very fabric of life had been reduced to an isolated decoration laid over a pattern of an altogether different nature. “I’m going out,” he said, softly. Lalla moaned in assent. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” Another moan. He left.

The street was already dark. He went directly to a bar nearby and, almost automatically, dialed Maurizio’s number. He had not planned to make this phone call; in fact, when he entered the bar he had no idea he would go to the phone. He had planned to have a coffee. The telephone had drawn him like a magnet, and that was it. Like an automaton, he heard himself responding to Maurizio’s greeting, “I need to speak to you right away.” Maurizio answered that he could meet him wherever he liked. After agreeing to meet at a café downtown, Sergio slammed down the phone.

What an amusing spectacle, Sergio thought as he walked toward the café. He did not know what he needed to discuss with Maurizio but was sure that as soon as he saw him, the words would come spontaneously, just as the desire to call him had come. He realized that, had he wanted to, he would have easily deciphered the reason for this meeting, but he did not want to analyze his reasoning too closely. The spontaneity of his actions made them feel more inevitable than any dogged analysis and planning could.

He waited for Maurizio at the café, an old place

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frequented by writers and painters. It was crowded as usual. But in the back, down a corridor lined with Empire-style divans upholstered in red velvet, there was a newer room, sparsely furnished and somewhat cold, and usually quite empty. Sergio sat down at a table in the back and ordered some tea. He did not wait long. Soon, Maurizio appeared and strode over to his table.

Sergio realized that once again his heart was racing. As before, he asked himself: “Why did I ask him to meet me here? What do I want to say to him?” He did not know exactly what he would say, and Maurizio’s calm, controlled, self-assured expression as he removed his coat, hung it on the coatrack, and sat down at the table, slightly pulling up his trousers as he bent his legs, deeply disconcerted him. How could Maurizio, who was not a Communist and had come quite unprepared, be so calm while he, who was a Communist and should have known in advance how the meeting would end, was in such a state? Maurizio did not give him a chance to gather his thoughts. As soon as he had ordered some tea, he confronted the issue at hand: “Can you explain to me why the devil you are so adamant about my becoming a Communist?”

Somewhat taken aback, Sergio was barely able to mumble: “I gave you my reasons the other day.”

“Yes, and they were very convincing … I mean, they make perfect sense. But I don’t think they are your true reasons.”

“And what do you think my true reasons are?”

“It’s simple: you want me to become a Communist because you are one,” he said, with some brutality.

“So?”

“So, according to your own words, since you hold me in high esteem … it bothers you that someone whom you esteem could prefer not to be a Communist … To you, the fact that a person might be worthy of esteem without being a Communist is a rebuke, an insult.”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“It’s obvious,” Maurizio said, “we all want to improve, perhaps even become the best version of ourselves … but the Communists believe that it is impossible to

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improve without joining their cause … The fact that I — a person whom you hold in high esteem — am not a Communist makes you question your own faith … It feels like a contradiction. You’ve admitted as much yourself. You say: we want the best people to join us, so that only the dregs, the refuse, will be left behind. Since you don’t consider me to be the dregs, you want me to become a Communist … If I don’t, you might begin to wonder whether in fact it is true that Communism contains an infallible truth … In other words, my very existence as a man worthy of esteem who does not embrace Communism could foment doubts which you fear more than anything and would like to avoid at any cost.”

Sergio drew a deep breath. After all, Maurizio was a reasonable man, and it should be possible to have a discussion without becoming overly excited. He said: “Perhaps you’re right … but from my perspective it simply means that I want to illuminate you and show you the error of your ways, or rather help you take the leap and make up your mind.”