“And clothes too,” she said, loudly. “Do you know when I bought this dress? Ten years ago … Look how discolored it is under the arms … and how old-fashioned it is … I was ashamed to wear it, but then he slapped me.”
Moroni sat in embarrassed silence. Annoyed, I said: “Come on now, why should Moroni care about such things?”
She leaned toward me and took my hand: “But I love you … and I’m glad you slapped me … Bless your hand,” she said, kissing it fervently, “bless this hand, which slapped me over and over again!”
“Stop it,” I said, impatiently, trying to pull my hand
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away.
But Nella did not mean it in this way. “You know, Mr. Moroni, I love him, and I always will, even though he treats me terribly … I would do anything for him … Don’t you believe me?”
“Oh yes,” he said, without looking at her.
“I love him … but we’re poor, and I want to make money so I can support him … He’s a Communist because we’re poor … but if we had money, he would change his mind.”
Moroni looked at me with some curiosity. Suddenly angry, I said, “You’re saying stupid things, and to make matters worse, they aren’t even true … I already told you: my political loyalties and our private life are of no interest to Mr. Moroni.”
Moroni sat down again. “Are you,” he asked, turning to Nella, in a courteous, almost shy voice, “are you a Communist as well, signorina?”
“No … I mean yes,” she said loudly, “I am everything that Sergio, my love, wants me to be … I love him, and if tomorrow he asked me to kill you because you are a capitalist, I would do it without hesitating.”
“You’re drunk,” I said, contemptuously. Then, turning to Moroni: “Don’t pay her any mind … she’s had too much to drink.”
“What a coward you are,” she shouted. “I may be drunk, but I would say the same thing even if I were sober … It’s true, Mr. Moroni … I love him and I would do anything for him … anything.”
I expected Moroni to get up and leave, or at least to show embarrassment and irritation. But instead, much to my surprise, he said, with a sigh: “You are a lucky man, Mr. Maltese, to be loved in this way.”
“Yes, we love each other,” she said loudly. “Or at least I love him … we loved each other from the very beginning. He came to the office of the Allied Command, where I was working, and kissed me, and the British officer saw us kissing and fired me on the spot … so we left, and would you believe it, Mr. Moroni, we made love there, in the bathroom … not the most comfortable place to make love, is it, Mr. Moroni? And yet that’s how our love began.”
Once again I felt ashamed; in fact, I had never felt
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so mortified, and for so many reasons, as that night at Maurizio’s party. Moroni watched us, not, as I would have thought, with embarrassment or distaste, but with a clear expression of benevolent, almost affectionate envy. Finally, he said, “Signorina, you are right to love him … and your sincerity does you honor … many men would be proud to have their lady friend make such declarations, even after a few glasses of wine … but please excuse me, I must go … pleased to meet you, Mr. Maltese … remember, signorina,
the name is Moroni, at your service.” He got up and walked away slowly and, I thought, with some regret, as if sorry to leave us.
Nella and I were alone again, sitting on the deep velvet couch in the darkened sitting room. “You’ve said enough silly things,” I berated her, angrily; “I think it’s time for us to go home.”
She put her arms around me. “Are you angry with me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“There are things one doesn’t talk about in front of strangers.”
Still embracing me, she looked at me with a serious air. “I said those things because Moroni was teasing me, treating me as if I were someone to be taken lightly … I wanted him to know that I love you and only you … What do you think? Do you think I really believe that he will offer me work in the movies? He only said that in order to entice me.”
I was struck by how serious she seemed, despite
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her drunk, exalted tone. “But you also told him that I joined the Communist Party because I don’t have any money,” I said.
She held me even more tightly. “I said that just to make you angry … I know it’s not true.”
“And why,” I asked, won over by her tenderness, “do you want to make me angry?”
“For no reason … because I’m silly … Forgive me.”
She held me in a tenacious, violent embrace that seemed to emanate not from her thin, child-like arms, but from the very source of her passion. I could not help but give in, but even at that moment I felt the contempt which I now know was the thing that ruined the best moments of our love. I kissed her and she returned my kiss with tumultuous avidity, her passion rendered almost chaste by her ardor and the fragrance of alcohol on her breath, usually so fresh and pure. As we kissed, I heard a familiar voice: “How they love each other, those two.” Instinctively, I pulled away.
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Nella, who was less modest, barely moved or even turned her head.
Maurizio was standing in front of us and an Allied officer stood next to him, observing us with his hands in his pockets. I noticed the officer’s quizzical expression. Slightly irritated, I got up and said: “Yes, we do love each other … what about it?”
Maurizio did not answer, and instead approached Nella and said, in a gently ceremonious voice, “I just wanted to tell you that if you’d like something to eat, a cold supper has been served in the dining room.”
“With pleasure,” Nella said, jumping up and taking Maurizio’s arm with a spontaneity that surprised me. “Let’s go, I’m terribly hungry.” She turned toward the officer and said, “Are you coming too, Major Parson?” and without waiting for a response, led us into the next room. Involuntarily, I wondered how she could possibly know the officer’s name, and came to the conclusion that she must have danced with him earlier in the evening. The officer turned and followed them, and I tailed behind, feeling unhappy and vaguely insecure.
The dancing had stopped and the guests crowded into a small room I had not noticed before, adjoining the room with the bar. It contained only a long table, which was covered with food, served by three waiters. Gisella had been right, I thought, when she said that Maurizio was a generous host and a real gentleman. This buffet froid was truly magnificent, not only for the stomach but also for the eyes, with a variety of colorful and fragrant food laid out elegantly on a beautiful embroidered tablecloth, with china plates and crystal glasses. I wasn’t hungry, however, and after watching Maurizio prepare a plate for Nella I made my way through the crowd to the bar. The only other person at the bar was Major Parson — the Allied officer Nella had spoken to earlier in a familiar tone — who sat there drinking with one foot resting on the brass railing. Staring into his pink, stolid face, which was almost repulsively virile, with two reddish whiskers like tiny brushes, I suddenly realized where
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I had seen him before, and why his expression had seemed so strange when he saw me kissing Nella. He was the Allied officer who had caught us kissing that day long ago at the offices of the Allied Command, and who had fired Nella on the spot. I felt a violent wave of aggression; I had often hoped to cross paths with him one day and give him a piece of my mind. With a trembling hand, I picked up a glass, poured myself some whiskey, and said, trying to sound very calm, “I believe we’ve met.”