Alberto Moravia - Two Friends

He went about the room opening windows and shutters in order to allow in the late afternoon sun. I took advantage of this pause to pull myself together and watch him. Even though this was our third meeting, I had never observed him closely; I now had the opportunity to see whether he was still the Maurizio I had always known and against whom I felt compelled to do battle. Our recent meetings had taken place in exceptional circumstances which were not conducive to close observation. The first had been in the dark, in Maurizio’s car and in the square on the Gianicolo. The second was in a crowd of guests, after too much drink. I now observed him with great curiosity, as if

272*

seeing him for the first time.

I was struck by a detail I had never noticed before: Maurizio had a limp. There was nothing disfiguring about this slight, halting movement; to the contrary, it gave him a mysterious, distinctive air. Comparing the man I had before me to my memories from five years earlier, I now saw that there were subtle changes. Back then, there had been something adolescent about him, whereas now one could say that he was almost too manly. He was tall, well built, with wide shoulders and big hands and feet; his face was pale but not wan, and rather full and well-fed; he had a bristling mustache beneath a pronounced nose and a willful chin and jaw. The overall impression was of physical strength; at first glance, he seemed hampered and embarrassed by it. He also seemed almost awkward or clumsy, as if he might knock over a table or step on someone’s toes at any moment. But as I observed him more closely I realized that this first impression was misleading. In truth, as he moved about the sitting room his gait and gestures revealed a singular skill, prudence, and agility. By analogy, it occurred to me that the apparent simplicity and coarseness of his personality might conceal a similar agility and cunning. His face, for example, radiated an air of great simplicity, without subtlety or indecision. His brow was square, his eyes clear and well-outlined, his nose pronounced and mouth completely lacking in sinuosity. But then, if one looked more closely, one could just make out a slight air of prudent, cautious concern. His mouth had a tight cast to it, his eyes were shaded and slightly evasive. Behind the somewhat brutal mask lay a clever, cautious spirit.

He carefully regulated the position of the curtains

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so that the soft late afternoon light would shine evenly throughout the room. Then he came and sat down across from me. I felt much calmer and more lucid, as if this chance to observe him had reassured me. He asked: “Would you like something to drink … a whiskey, perhaps?”

“No, thank you!” I said, with alacrity. “I think I drank enough last night to last me all year.”

“As you like,” he said, serving himself half a glass from a bottle on a small table and then mixing it with mineral water. After a brief pause, I spoke: “Last night I drank far too much, and I’m afraid I behaved deplorably.”

He said nothing. It occurred to me that silence was probably one of the tactics he used to embarrass people who, like me, were impatient and overly earnest. So I decided that I too would remain silent. I would say nothing until he spoke, even if this meant that we sat in silence until the end of my visit. I pulled a pack of cigarettes and some matches out of my pocket, slowly lit one, and began to smoke. I reasoned that if Maurizio had no hostile intentions toward me, he would be surprised by my silence, and after a few moments, he would say something, or at least point out my strange behavior. But if, as I believed, he was hostile toward me and was animated by the same rivalry that I felt, he would remain silent, in an attempt to force me to speak first. In that case it would be obvious that he too saw us as rivals and enemies, as two people locked in struggle, however unspoken and unspeakable that struggle might be. A few minutes passed. I smoked in silence. Every so often, Maurizio took a sip of his drink. After a while I glanced at my watch and saw that seven minutes had passed. I waited another three minutes, and still, neither of us spoke. Now I knew that I was right. Maurizio and

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I saw things the same way; he did not consider us to be friends or acquaintances, but rivals, perhaps even enemies. This discovery encouraged me. The previous evening he had maintained a slippery, evasive attitude, hiding his intentions and leading me to wonder whether my interpretation of our rivalry might be simply the result of my own twisted logic and the fruit of my feelings of inferiority. But now I thought to myself: “So it’s true … you too have a desire to conquer me, to put me at a disadvantage, as they say.” This was a heartening thought: better a confessed enemy than a false friend. I decided to wait another five minutes, still hoping to make him talk. But after five minutes I had to confess that in this silent test of wills he was surely, if not necessarily the stronger party, at least the most disinterested. In other words, he emanated a complete indifference, whether sincere or excellently simulated I did not know. If I departed without speaking, I would be left with a nagging curiosity about what he might have said and how I might have responded. I would leave with the suspicion that he had nothing to say to me, and no desire to hear what I had to say. As I thought this, lucidly and objectively and in silence, I was once again forced to recognize that he was the stronger of the two. Suddenly I became annoyed and blurted out, in a cutting voice: “Fine, I’ll speak … I’ll speak first … but only to say that I can see your tactics; I know that by remaining silent you are presenting me with a kind of challenge, and I refuse to rise to the challenge. After all, we’re not children anymore … staring in silence and waiting to see who will crack … That’s a kid’s game.”

“That may be true, but still, you spoke first.”

Evidently he felt strongly about his methods and was congratulating himself on the results: he had forced me to break the silence. I pretended not to understand what he was insinuating and continued: “Why are you limping? I don’t remember you having a limp five years ago.”

He answered indifferently: “I broke my leg fighting

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with the partigiani … jumping off a boulder in the mountains.”

There was another silence. I stared at him and finally gave voice to a thought that had been bouncing around in my head for a while: “You know, you’ve changed.”

He looked at me with some curiosity: “In what way?”

“You used to be more sure of yourself … and more arrogant, at least with me … Now you seem more prudent.”

Almost with humility he confessed: “Yes, it’s true.”

“Why is that?”

He reflected for a moment: “I imagine it’s because of everything that happened … We suffered quite a blow.”

“You suffered quite a blow.”

“Fine, I did.”

He seemed strangely docile, even a bit sad. I asked, sympathetically: “What do you mean to do now?”

“Me? Nothing … I came back to Rome, I set up this movie business with Moroni … We’re trying to make a movie … Hopefully, we’ll succeed. That’s all.”

Finally approaching the topic I had come to discuss, I said: “Nella tells me that you agree with my ideas.”

He looked at me and asked, “What ideas?” though it was clear that he knew what I meant.

“My political ideas.”

“Well, yes,” he muttered, hesitantly, “all in all, I think that you Communists are on the right track.”

“So?”

“So, what?”

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“What are you waiting for? Why don’t you take the leap, as they say?”

“You mean become a Communist?” he asked, gravely.