Alberto Moravia - Two Friends

I did not seek him out. For some reason, I was sure that he would reappear, in the way that certain profound, important things in our life often do, at regular intervals. What was the basis for my certainty? The equally unspoken, hidden knowledge that without Maurizio I did not fully exist, that he was my other, negative and baleful half, without which everything that I considered positive and good for humanity could not exist, neither in myself nor in the world.

One evening after dinner Nella and I went out to a

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café where we usually met with our friends to engage in the same discussions until past midnight, night after night. But for some reason on that particular evening the café was empty; our friends had apparently made other plans. We stopped at two or three other cafés in the neighborhood, but they too were empty. I was in an especially surly mood — I can’t remember why — and Nella, who tended to react to my ill humor with tenderness and caresses, was getting on my nerves. Finally we sat down at a café with a few iron tables and chairs, illuminated with tubes of blinding neon light. We were the only people there. It was a small room with high ceilings, a dirty floor, and empty tables. After a mediocre coffee, I began to pick on Nella, as usual. The point of departure was always the same: for one reason or another, I would start talking about politics and the Communist Party, and my conviction that the Party would soon come to power. But instead of reacting enthusiastically to my revolutionary dreams, Nella received them, as usual, with innocent, uninformed indifference. I had convinced myself that a revolution was imminent. In my state of befuddlement, mortification, and impotence, this idea was the one source of light I could see for the country as well as for my own personal existence. It was practically impossible for me to accept that my conviction and sincere, almost mystical hope for change, inspired by my resentment toward the political leadership that had brought Fascism to power and forced Italy into war and catastrophe, was not shared by Nella. My noble ideals sailed right over her head, like a cannon shooting into the air. She, on the other hand, attached herself tenaciously to the only real thing that existed between us, our love, and, as was becoming increasingly clear, she could see nothing beyond this love. I tried to explain to her, with abundant ideological, psychological, moral, and political arguments, why revolution was inevitable and desirable, but I could see that she was distracted. Her attention was focused only on me, no matter what I said. If I had been discussing idle gossip rather than pouring out fervent arguments for revolution, it would have been exactly the same to her. I

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could sense her lack of interest in the way she nodded, saying “yes, yes,” as one does to a child whom one loves and has no intention of contradicting. She did little things that revealed what really mattered to her at that moment: loving me, being close to me, living with me. As she assented to my arguments, she would take my hand and kiss it, still pretending to listen. Or she would gently provoke me by pressing her leg against mine, seeking a more intimate, distracting contact. I would exclaim: “You don’t care about what I’m saying.” To which she would answer, with almost mystical abandon: “I always agree with you, no matter what you say.” This irritated me even more. “Come on, Nella, what if I’m wrong? You have to contradict me if you disagree.” She would confess, humbly, “You are so much more intelligent than I am … of course you’re right.” “So you agree that the revolution is coming?” “Of course, if you think it is,” she would say, taking my hand and kissing it passionately. “Don’t kiss me … Why don’t you think for a moment?” “I’m sure it will come … and no matter what happens, I’ll always be beside you, always … I’ll never leave you.” “But that’s not the point!” I would finally exclaim, exasperated. “You have to reason, use your brain, think!” “I do, I think I love you.” “You’re an idiot, a stupid, silly thing,” I would say, brutally detaching my hand and pushing her away, “you’re nothing but a piece of meat, a sex, a being without dignity, without autonomy, without freedom.” “Don’t be angry with me,” she would implore; “why are you so cruel to me?” These last words were said in a strange, cloying voice tinged with surprise. Even now that we are no longer together, I can still hear her: “Why are you so cruel to me?”

I remember that on that evening, as I was explaining for the hundredth time why I believed that a revolution was imminent, she took my hand and began to press it against her cheek, kissing my palm passionately from time to time and gazing up at me from beneath her red mane with her big brown eyes, full of love and admiration. It was clear that the emptiness of that little room excited her and awakened in her a desire to make love in some dark corner, just steps from the door. What irritated me even more was that I too was becoming excited at her touch and was beginning

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to have trouble following my own complicated reasoning. Suddenly filled with fervor, I asked: “Don’t you agree?” She pressed my hand and put her face close to mine, saying, “To me, you’re always right … but now, kiss me …” Earlier, I described Nella as timid and passive, discreet, and extremely demure. But when it came to love she was brazen and quite unashamed, though her manner remained innocent and awkward. I must admit that these were the qualities I most admired in her, and which excited me the most. But at that moment, after the effort I had put into explaining my ideas to her, her insistent talk of love and kisses filled me with rage. “Enough!” I said, in a loud, trembling voice. “I try to talk to you and all you do is rub against me … Leave me alone … You’re like an animal … Leave me alone!” She held my hand tightly and, not paying attention to my furious words, pulled me very close, offering her lips. At the same time, she slipped one leg on top of mine, almost climbing on my lap, revealing one knee and part of her thigh. As I pulled away, I slapped her, brutally giving release to the discontent I had felt on that and many other evenings. She stared at me in surprise, still holding my hand. Finally she let go, wide-eyed, but still rested her leg on mine. Two enormous tears appeared, filling her eyes and pouring down her cheeks. Now furious at myself for my brutal, stupid action, I tapped the plate with my spoon and called the waiter. Nella pulled away her leg but continued to cry quietly without drying her tears, sitting still and straight with her eyes wide open. After paying the astonished waiter I got up as if to leave. “I think it’s best if we go to bed,” I said curtly. She followed me in silence, still crying.

As we walked out into the narrow street, just a few steps from our door, a slow-moving car almost hit us, and we were forced to step aside and press our backs against one of the buildings. As the car rolled by I turned to protest, still furious from the scene in the café, and the car came to a stop. It was a large model, old-fashioned but quite luxurious. A figure leaned out of the window. I heard a surprised voice: “Sergio, is that you?”

I was still so angry that I found myself at a loss for

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words. I stared in the direction of the voice; a man leaned his head out of the car but I didn’t recognize him and could barely make out his face. “Don’t you recognize me? It’s Maurizio,” he said, and suddenly, like a shipwreck victim who finally catches sight of a ship on the horizon after staring into an empty, pitiless sea, I called out, “Maurizio!” I don’t know if I felt happiness or relief, or something even more profound. In any case, my reaction was involuntary and automatic.