Alberto Moravia - Two Friends

As if hearing his thoughts, Maurizio said nonchalantly, “Of course you shouldn’t tell Lalla that I gave you the money … Tell her you were paid to write a screenplay or something along those lines … You’ve written for the movies in the past, haven’t you?”

“No.”

“Well, think of something … then after a while

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I’ll give you more money … for the next installment of your screenplay … That way Lalla will be happy … Clothes are important to women.”

“But I’ll never be able to pay you back.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Maurizio said.

Without knowing why, Sergio blurted out, “You think that, with the excuse of this lie about a screenplay, I’ll accept more money from you.”

“Well,” Maurizio said, shrugging, “if you are willing to take this money I don’t see why you wouldn’t take more.”

“Have I accepted?”

“Well, you put the check in your wallet.”

“And how much will you give me later?”

“As much as you need,” Maurizio said, calmly, “so that Lalla can dress decently.”

“And you’re happy to give me this money?”

“Yes, very … As I said, I feel great affection for Lalla.”

“Or is it because you want to humiliate me?”

Maurizio pretended not to hear his rebuke. He walked over to a small bar on wheels and asked, invitingly: “Would you like an aperitif … a cocktail?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“A martini, then,” Maurizio said. He mixed the gin and vermouth in a large glass, then rang a bell and asked the butler for some ice. As soon as the butler left the room, he asked, in the same calm voice as before: “Regarding our earlier conversation … have you come to a decision?”

Sergio’s heart jumped. “What do you mean?”

“Our conversation about my possible conversion to Communism.”

In a voice that did not feel like his own, and with the same spontaneity that had led him to ask Maurizio for money, Sergio heard himself respond: “I accept.”

There was a sound of broken glass. A small glass

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had crashed to the floor; it was not clear whether it had fallen out of Maurizio’s hand or had simply tumbled from the bar. “How nervous I am,” Maurizio said. His voice was agitated, polite, and intense. The butler returned with the ice. “You can put it there, Giovanni,” Maurizio said in his usual voice.

Maurizio picked up the pitcher containing the mixture of gin and vermouth and returned to where Sergio was sitting. He dropped in some ice with a spoon and, pouring the mixture into a small glass, said, with some nervous anticipation, “Not only will I sign up, but I’ll donate two million lire to the Party … on the day you fulfill your promise.”

He looked almost upset, overcome by a powerful, long-repressed happiness. Sergio could not help thinking that he seemed happy to join the Communist Party, and to obtain Lalla in the process. In other words, he had killed two birds with one stone. Sergio felt weak, and slightly faint. The blood drained from his face. In order to steady his nerves he gulped down his drink. Maurizio insisted: “So, how will we go about it?”

“You’re very impatient,” Sergio said, looking at his friend.

“You know I’m head over heels for her,” Maurizio said.

“I’ll speak with her today … but I’m not sure she’ll agree.”

“If you really want to, I’m sure you’ll convince her.”

Sergio stood up, abruptly. “I’m leaving,” he said, adding, “don’t get up … I know the way.” He rushed out without waiting for an answer.

[V]

Two questions went round and round in Sergio’s

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mind. Why had he taken the money? And why, once he had taken it, had he accepted Maurizio’s proposition to convert to Communism?

He could answer the first question with relative ease: out of love for Lalla. But he knew that this was not the real reason. The truth was that he had accepted the money for reasons that were deeper, and more obscure. He felt the need to thrust Lalla into Maurizio’s arms, and this money was simply a means to that end; he had sold Lalla to Maurizio, like a piece of merchandise. Why did he feel this need to thrust Lalla into Maurizio’s arms? The obvious answer was that he wanted to convince Maurizio to become a Communist, but the second, more subtle, was closer to the truth: there was a struggle for power going on between them, and he wanted to vanquish his opponent. If he convinced Maurizio to join the Party it would be his victory, the proof of his power. Each of his actions had two motivations, one more generous and more noble, the other darker and more selfish. He had accepted the money so that Lalla would be able to look more presentable, and so that she would become Maurizio’s lover. He wanted her to become Maurizio’s lover so that he would join the Party, and in order to feel superior to him. Which was the true reason? Probably both, just as all our actions tend to be both disinterested and selfish.

These were his thoughts as he waited impatiently for Lalla to come home. He had expected to find her there, but when he returned, the room was empty. The landlady could tell him only that Lalla had gone out shortly after he had. It was odd; he knew that she did not like to go out alone, and she was lazy. He also knew that she had no money, not even enough for a coffee.

He waited for a long time until finally there was a knock on the door and the landlady told him that Lalla was on the phone. He picked up the receiver.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“What do you mean, what am I doing?” Sergio asked, surprised. “I’m waiting for you.”

Her voice wavered: “I’m here at … I’ve been

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waiting.”

“Where?”

He could hear voices, as if Lalla were asking for the address. She said: “Listen, take a taxi for once in your life … Come to Via Sisto Quinto, number twenty-seven.”

“Where?”

“I can’t explain … I’m drunk … Just come.” She hung up.

Feeling annoyed, Sergio took his overcoat from the coatrack and went out. He found a taxi in the piazza around the corner. From the look on the driver’s face he surmised that the address lay quite far away. The taxi traversed the entire city, went down a few suburban streets, and then up a hill, and finally turned onto a new road lined with a few very modern buildings. On one side of the road lay these new constructions, each set quite far from the next, while on the other, the lights of Rome glimmered in the darkness. The taxi stopped. “Number twenty-seven,” the driver grumbled, pointing at one of the new buildings, six or seven stories tall, looming in the darkness.

Sergio paid and went inside. The foyer smelled of lime and recently waxed wood. It was not a luxurious building, but rather one of the new apartment complexes being built for the middle bourgeoisie, on lots that had until recently been farmland. As soon as he was inside, he realized that in her drunken state, Lalla had forgotten to tell him the apartment number or the name of the person she was visiting. “What now?” he wondered, looking around. He began to climb the stairs.

On the phone, he had heard voices and music. As soon as he encountered noise coming from one of the doors, he stopped. The pale, blond wood door had a plaque with the name Moroni. He hesitated and then knocked.

A young-looking maid came to the door. The shapely, almost elegant girl had blonde hair and wore a lot of makeup; her mouth was wide and red and she had blue eyes. Somewhat taken aback, Sergio asked if a young woman by the name of Lalla was there. There was a clamor of voices and a record player. The foyer, compact and bare except for two or three small objects, was empty. “There are so many people,”