will,” he added, “be a lovely bride.”
Sergio started at the word “bride,” with its old-fashioned, provincial air. Moroni continued: “I would like to be one of your witnesses. I’ve known Miss Lalla for over a year and I feel great affection for her … Please remember.”
As he said this, his voice quivered. Sergio looked up and answered as kindly as he could: “Thank you … As soon as we’ve set the date we’ll let you know, of course.”
Moroni seemed to be in the mood to trade confidences: “Do you know why I like her so much? I lost my wife, and Miss Lalla resembles her … I lost her when she was still young, more or less Miss Lalla’s age … The resemblance is quite strong … See for yourself.” He pulled out his wallet and removed a photograph, which he handed to Sergio. It was an old ID photo of Moroni’s late wife. The face — which was all one could see — looked as if it had been touched by death. One could barely make out the features. Sergio noted a slight resemblance, especially in the irregularity of the face, the large forehead, small nose, and wide mouth. But little else. He returned the photograph to Moroni: “It’s true, there is a certain resemblance.”
“You see?” Moroni said. “It is truly extraordinary … I find it very moving,” he added, touching his face and looking, as he said, quite moved. Sergio peered up at him but said nothing. He had finished eating. Finally, he stood up, leaving his plate and glass on the table. Moroni rushed over: “I’m so sorry … I’m a bit upset; you see my wife was everything to me.”
Sergio poured himself another glass of wine, in silence. “I would love to invite you to the country,” Moroni added, “I have a little house in Olevano …”
“We would love to,” Sergio said, firmly, and headed toward the living room.
Lalla was dancing with a young man with a great
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mop of brown hair and thick glasses. Sergio noticed that she seemed very drunk: she shifted her feet clumsily and grasped her partner tightly, her hips moving awkwardly like an animal whose lower limbs have been affected by a strange paralysis. He sat in a corner, trying not to look at her: seeing her move so clumsily and with so little grace made him feel a wave of contempt and almost hatred, as toward something vile and almost worthless. After the song ended Lalla did not leave her partner; the two stood side by side in the middle of the room, talking. Then the dancing began again; there were more couples now, and Sergio saw that her shaggy-haired partner was casually leading Lalla toward another room, through a half-open door. They twisted and turned awhile longer near the door, after which the dancer lightly pushed the door open with the same hand he used to encircle Lalla’s waist, and they disappeared into the next room. The door, which the man had pushed from inside the room, was now in its original position, slightly ajar, and no one had noticed their disappearance. For a moment, Sergio did nothing as feelings of rage and jealousy washed over him. Finally, he pushed through the throng of dancers and opened the door to the other room. He stood in the doorway.
As he had suspected, they were no longer dancing. The room contained a bed, an armoire, and a few other pieces of furniture. There were coats and hats everywhere. Lalla was sitting on the bed with her back to the door, struggling clumsily in the arms of the shaggy-haired man. She did not seem to be fighting very hard; one of her shoulders was already exposed and her blouse was sliding down her arm. The young man was insistently trying to twist her head so that their lips met. Lalla was still struggling, but just as Sergio came into the room she was beginning to put up less of a fight. Sergio went around to the bed and violently yanked the shoulder that was still covered. “Get up. Let’s go,” he growled.
The young man let go and Lalla pulled away slightly, clumsily fixing her hair. “Who are you?” the man asked Sergio.
“That’s none of your business,” Sergio replied. “You were right to bring her here … That’s how it’s done, isn’t it? After all, the signorina didn’t put up much of a fight, did she, so your conscience is clear.
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But now the signorina is coming with me, because I am who I am.”
“Listen here,” the man objected, standing up. Lalla was sobbing: “Sergio … stop it … leave me alone … go away.” As she said this, she rose lazily from the bed.
“I’ll go, but you’re coming with me.”
“Don’t move,” the other man said, in a more confident tone, as he walked up to Sergio. “Who are you?”
“That’s right, who are you?” Lalla said in a drunken voice.
Sergio stared at Lalla’s cheek. The skin was dark and covered with a fine down which, at the temples and around her ears, gradually merged with her hairline; her hair was combed up in a bun. He was tempted to become violent, but with a cold, almost experimental aggression. He raised a hand and slapped his lover, saying: “That’s who I am, and now let’s go.”
She bowed her head, as if in defeat. “Stop that,” the bespectacled young man objected, but Sergio pushed him out of the way and he fell backward onto the bed, into a pile of overcoats. Gripping Lalla’s arm, Sergio pushed her out of the room, through the crowd of dancing guests and into the foyer, where they were joined by their host. “Are you leaving?”
“Yes … Lalla’s not feeling well.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” Moroni mumbled a few more niceties, and repeated the invitation to his villa in Olevano. He held the door open for them. Lalla stared
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down at the floor as she dressed mechanically and said good-bye to her student. Sergio continued to grip her arm as they descended the stairs. Once outside, Sergio hailed a taxi and they got in. As the taxi drove away, Sergio turned to Lalla and said, “You whore.”
Lalla did not respond and simply sat in silence with her head down, as if lost in thought. As they passed a streetlamp, Sergio noticed that she was crying. For some reason, this rekindled his contempt, and he said, with conviction: “You’re just a whore … Anyone can have you … They don’t even have to pay you … Never mind your feelings of gratitude toward Maurizio … some whiskey is enough. Whore.”
Still in silence, she shook her head and continued to cry. As the taxi sped along, Sergio felt his rage increasing. Suddenly unable to control himself, he said again: “You whore,” and hit her awkwardly on the back with his fist. Lalla moaned and hid her face in her hands.
When they arrived, the taxi stopped and they got out. As Sergio paid, the driver observed: “That’s no way to talk to a woman.” He was almost an old man, with the air of a paterfamilias. Sergio stared at him for a moment and then silently grabbed Lalla’s arm, pushing her toward the door.
They climbed up the stairs four by four, practically running. Lalla kept tripping, covering her face with one hand. Once they reached their landing, Sergio dragged her toward their room. He pushed her violently onto the bed. She fell heavily, making the bedsprings creak. Then he closed the door and turned on the light.
Lalla was lying facedown on the bed with her face in her hands, sobbing loudly. Sergio sat down on the bed and said, furiously: “I can’t leave you alone for a moment without you doing something stupid … What’s wrong with you? What kind of a woman are you?”
Without looking up, still sobbing, she replied: “Why are you so cruel, Sergio? I’m drunk, I already told you … and I’m so tired of this life, of being poor, tired of everything … That’s why men can do what they want with me … But why are you so cruel? Why don’t you try to understand?”
An enraged lucidity had replaced everything else in Sergio’s mind. “So you’re tired of being poor?” he said, furiously. “Well look what I have here. I have money for you, look here … Get up and look.” He removed