Alberto Moravia: Conjugal Love

One day my wife came in in a dressing-gown and told Antonio that she wanted him to dress her hair for her. All that was needed, she said, was a touch with the curling-iron; she had already washed it herself, that morning. She asked Antonio whether he knew how to wave hair, and when he said yes, she requested him, after he had finished with me, to go to her room. When my wife had gone out, I asked Antonio if he had ever been a ladies' hairdresser and he replied, not without vanity, that all the girls of the countryside came to him to have their hair done. I was surprised, and he confirmed that nowadays even the most rustic peasant-girls wanted permanent waves. 'They're more particular than town ladies,' he concluded with a smile; 'they're never satisfied. . sometimes they're enough to drive you mad.' He shaved me with his usual slowness and precision. Then, after putting the razors all in order, he left me and went to my wife's room.

After Antonio had gone, I sat down in the sun in the armchair in which my wife generally sat, a book in my hand. I remember that it was Tasso's Aminta, which I had started to re-read at that time. I was conscious of being in a particularly lucid and sensitive state of mind, and the charm of that graceful poem, which accorded so well with the luminous, gentle quality of the day, soon made me forget that I was waiting. Now and then, at a more than usually melodious line, I would raise my eyes to the window, repeating it in my mind; and each time I made this movement I seemed to become conscious of my happiness, like someone who moves about in a well-warmed bed and is conscious, each time he moves, of its comfort. Antonio's job with my wife took about three-quarters of an hour. Finally I heard him go out on to the drive, say good-bye to the maid in a quiet voice, and then I heard the crunch of the gravel under his bicycle wheels as he went further and further away. A few minutes later my wife came into the room.

I rose to my feet in order to look at her. Antonio, so it seemed, had solved the problem by covering her whole head with curls and transforming the smooth, loose arrangement of her hair into a sort of eighteenth-century wig. All those curls piled one on top of another and sprouting out round her long, thin face gave her, at first sight, an odd appearance, like a smartly dressed peasant woman. This look of rusticity was enhanced by a little bunch of fresh flowers — I think they were red geraniums — pinned on just above her left temple.

'Splendid!' I cried, with a burst of gaiety. 'Antonio's certainly a wizard. . Mario and Attilio in Rome can go and bury their heads, they're not worthy even to tie his shoes.. . You look just like one of the little peasant girls from round about here when they go to the fair on Sunday. . and those flowers are really marvellous. . Let's look at you.' As I said this I tried to make her turn slowly round, so as better to admire the barber's achievement.

But, to my surprise, my wife's face was clouded by an ill-humour that I could not account for. Her big lower lip was trembling — always a sign of anger with her. Finally, with a movement of intense disgust, she pushed me away, saying: 'Please don't make jokes.. . I'm not at all in the mood for joking.'

I did not understand, and I went on: 'Come on, you don't need to be ashamed. I assure you, Antonio's done an excellent job. . you look splendid.. .Don't worry, you'll cut a good figure at the fair next Sunday — and if you go to the dance, you'll certainly have several proposals of marriage!'

As can be seen, I imagined that her ill-humour was due to what Antonio had done: I knew her to be extremely vain and it would not have been the first time that an unskilful hairdresser had aroused her anger. But she thrust me away again, this time with a look of resentment, and repeated: 'I've already asked you not to make jokes.'

It suddenly dawned upon me that her displeasure was caused by something other than her coiffure. 'But why?' I asked. 'What has happened?'

She had walked over to the window and was looking out, her two hands on the sill.

Suddenly she turned. 'What has happened is that tomorrow you must kindly do me the favour of changing your barber. I don't want that Antonio here any more.'

I was astonished.' But why? He's not a town barber, I know that of course. . but he does all right for me. . You don't have to make use of him again.'

'Oh, Silvio,' she burst forth in anger, 'why won't you understand me? It's not a question of whether he's good at his job — what does that matter?'

'But what's it all about, then?'

'He was disrespectful to me. . and I don't want to see him any more — ever again.'

'He was disrespectful to you? What d'you mean?'

There must have been in my expression and the tone of my voice still something of the thoughtless indifference that possessed me every morning at that time, for she added scornfully: 'But what does it matter to you if Antonio is disrespectful to me? Of course, it means nothing to you.'

I was afraid I had offended her; going up to her, I said, seriously: 'Forgive me. . perhaps I hadn't quite understood. But do please tell me in what way he was lacking in respect.'

'I tell you, he was disrespectful,' she cried with sudden rage, turning towards me a second time, with nostrils quivering and an expression of hardness in her eyes; 'that's quite enough. .. He's a horrible man… send him away, get someone else… I don't want him about the place any more.'

'I don't understand,' I said; 'he's a man who's usually most respectful — serious, in fact… A family man. . '

'Yes,' she repeated, with a sarcastic shrug of the shoulders, 'a family man.'

'But now will you please tell me what he did to you?'

We went on disputing like this for a while, I insisting on knowing in what way Antonio had shown lack of respect, and she refusing to provide any explanation but merely repeating her accusation. In the end, after a great deal of furious wrangling, I thought I understood what had happened. In order to dress her hair, it had been necessary for Antonio to stand very close to the armchair in which she was sitting. It had appeared to her that more than once he had tried to brush against her shoulder and her arm with his body. I say it appeared to her; for she herself admitted that the barber had continued his work imperturbably, remaining all the time silent and respectful. But these contacts, she swore, were not fortuitous; she had observed that they had an intention, a purpose behind them. She was sure that-Antonio had intended, by means of these contacts, to establish a relationship with her, to make her an improper proposal.

'But are you quite sure?' I asked at last, astonished.

'How could I not be sure? Oh, Silvio, how can you doubt what I say?'

'But it might have been just an impression.'

'Impression? — nonsense. . Besides, it's enough just to look at him. He's sinister, that man. . completely bald, and with that neck and those eyes that always look up at you from under his eyelids and never straight in the face. . That man's baldness is outrageous. . Don't you see what I mean? Are you blind?'

'It might have been an accident…. A barber's work forces him to come very close to his client.'

'No, it wasn't an accident. . Once might perhaps have been an accident, but several times, all the time — no, it wasn't an accident.'

'Let's see,' I said; and I cannot deny that I felt some amusement in carrying out this species of inquest: 'you sit down on this chair… I'll be Antonio. Now, let's see.'

She was boiling over with impatience and anger; but she obeyed, though with a bad grace, and sat down on the chair. I took up a pencil, pretending it was the curling-iron, and leant over as though to curl her hair. And in fact, in that position, just as I had imagined, the lower part of my stomach was exactly at the level of her arm and shoulder and I could not help brushing against her.