Scent of a Woman

1

A large iridescent fly buzzed around the window on the landing; the walls smelled of fresh paint. Relishing the taste of air, the fly veered suddenly, found the narrow gap at the partially open window, and disappeared. I leaned out too, to toss away my cigarette butt. The courtyard below was deserted: a meagre couple of yards of cement in the late August sun. In the distance, the withered green of the hills beyond the river blended into an opaque sky. Before ringing the doorbell, I felt to make sure my cap was sitting firmly on my forehead, checked the knot and proper positioning of my tie.

The door opened at once, as if the woman had been there all along, waiting.

She was a tiny old woman, incredibly rosy and diminutive, dressed in white and grey. Smiling and twinkling through every one of her delightful wrinkles, she gestured for me to come in. Behind her, the darkness of a long corridor. We quickly turned into a kitchen, two chairs already moved out from the table.

‘Good, good, very punctual, that’s a pleasure to see.’ She sighed, still smiling, nodding, her hands clasped.

I told her my name and carefully balanced my cap on my knee.

‘But you’re hardly more than a boy, good heavens!’ she lamented, squinting. I felt myself blush. ‘Who knows whether a young man like you will have the patience that this situation… the patience to stay here.’

She remained undecided, holding her breath, her lips slightly parted over her porcelain teeth.

So I told her that my commanding officer at the barracks had explained the situation to me in detail.

Her smile faded, she nodded again, stroking the back of her right hand with the slender fingers of her left. She had very beautiful hands, transparent as tissue-paper, in keeping with her, with the immaculate surroundings, with the two flowers in the vase on the table.

‘A student, I think. An only child?’

I told her a little about my father, a clerk, about my mother and my younger sister. As I searched for the right words, those three familiar faces emerged from their usual misty haze for a moment, only to become softly shrouded again soon afterwards. I then specified my age, twenty years old, and the university faculty I was enrolled in, business and economy.

The voice coming out of my mouth felt unconnected to me.

Her sigh in response was not one of relief.

‘I know nothing about today’s young people,’ she said finally, hedging. ‘Him too, him in there, with that great misfortune of his, I can’t understand him either. It must be my age. And then too: can understanding help in any way? Sympathy does, of course.’

But as if stung by delirium, she was once again on her feet and smiling, expressions flitting across her face: ‘There’s chilled coffee, would you like some? It’s good. Or maybe an orangeade would be better? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like some.’

She was spinning around. I thought: a squirrel. I soon had a glass of coffee in my hands.

‘Is it all right if I smoke?’

She laughed quietly. ‘Go ahead. Him too, one cigarette after another. You men.’

She accompanied that ‘him’ with a brief wag of her fingers over her shoulders, as if to indicate the entities hidden beyond the darkness of the corridor.

She recovered her composure, her hands clasped, and continued: ‘Still, all in all you give the impression of being a fine young man, fine indeed.’

We went on looking at each other; I was determined not to be the first to ask a question.

Finally she made up her mind to speak, lowering her voice: ‘I’m his aunt. He says I’m only a cousin, but in fact I’m like an aunt and more, because who nursed his poor mother up until the end, if not me? Fortunately she passed away before having to endure the worst. Afterwards it was all so difficult, no one can ever imagine. Until the day of the accident I didn’t know him very well. He was always roaming around the world, boarding school, academy, the military. But since then I’ve had to be the one to look after him, it’s clear that God above willed it. It’s been nine years now, did you know that?’

I finished the coffee, and went on holding the glass in my hand. It was still cool.

‘Nine years,’ she went on in a monotone, her voice increasingly thinner. ‘Today it’s nothing, but at the beginning: oh, I don’t even want to think about how it was at the beginning. A young man like him, losing his sight and a hand. Just like that: only because Our Lord won’t let anyone be happy in this world. During manoeuvres, playing with a bomb. I say “playing” because what else are these manoeuvres nowadays? Here, give me that glass.’

‘My commander explained it to me,’ I said.

In order to appear indifferent, I stared at the tiles on the floor. Each set of four formed a blue design, a kind of improvised flower against a white background. Through the transparent curtains at the window the light fell on those flowers in a sunburst, revealing their fragility.

‘A man like him,’ she went on slowly, as the wrinkles on her face crumpled and unfolded. ‘Even rather wealthy, yes. He’s rich, I’m certainly not. A scrap of widow’s pension, that’s all I have. But him: rich. Not even forty years old. Healthy as a horse. And all alone in the world.’

Carefully I crushed out the butt in the little plate she had offered me as an ashtray.

‘Take good care of him during this time, please,’ she added. ‘You must never leave him alone. You know that, don’t you? And be patient, young man, very, very patient. Don’t contradict him, don’t argue for heaven’s sake! Always tell him he’s right, whether he’s making sense or raving. The only sure way out is to always answer yes. Yes and yes, sir. Do you understand?’

‘Of course, ma’am.’

‘Ciccio, the soldier who is in hospital right now, his attendant up until the day before yesterday, was Calabrian, thick-headed but good, in some cases even cunning. He realized right away that his only reply must be “yes” and “yes, sir”. That Ciccio too, though: coming down with typhus just now, on the eve of the trip. Does that sound like luck to you?’

‘In our barracks too there have been three cases of typhus,’ I said, immediately noticing her lack of interest.

Her watery eyes were fixed on me, as though seeking some image beyond me.

In a wispy voice, she offered: ‘Bad is a strong word, and I wouldn’t want to actually say he’s bad, but he’s cut from different cloth, nothing in common with people like us. The great damage he’s suffered, of course. But he was a little like that even before the accident: God knows what his mother had to put up with, raising him. Then too, the pain. But these are our secrets, right, my boy?’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

She continued gazing at me with fleeting tenderness, then sudden mistrust. She set down the glass, and carefully and repeatedly smoothed the cuffs of her dress, her fingers lightly ironing out invisible creases.

Maybe she was afraid she’d said too much.

In fact: ‘For you, after all, it’s also a nice vacation,’ she added, looking away. ‘Five days plus two, as you say – in short, a week’s leave is something, to be sure. All the way to Naples, and no barracks.’

She was right, so I tried to utter another reassuring phrase.

‘Fine, fine,’ she interrupted, suddenly dejected, ‘now you’d better go in. There are strips of cloth right outside there. For polishing. With those heavy military boots of yours. It’s the door at the end of the corridor. But knock first. Always knock first, with him. I… it’s best if I stay here. God help me, something always slips out of this mouth of mine.’

She had already shut me out of her orbit. With an elbow planted on the table, she was now admiring the two flowers in the vase, the fingertips of her right hand reaching out to touch and examine petal after petal.

‘And never call him captain, always just sir,’ she warned again blankly, not looking at me.

‘I’ll call you Ciccio. Do you like that? I’ve always called all of you that. Or do you mind? Does it seem like a dog’s name? If you don’t like it, say so. Go ahead and tell me.’

He’d had me sit down and his pitted face was less than a few feet away. The dark glasses that wrapped around his temples and his gloved, rigid left hand gleamed faintly in the semi-darkness. His smile flashed readily, quickly erasing the effect of a face that only appeared smooth – and very pale – between the hairline and the top of his glasses.

From the window, beyond the curtain, faint street noises could be heard.

‘Warm? Did you have something to drink in there? Say something. Are you or aren’t you a student? So then, talk.’

He ended with a laugh.

‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

His right hand reached towards the table that stood between us and he took a cigarette from the pack. Before I could strike a match, those fingers swiftly moved to measure the distance between his lips and the tip of the cigarette, flicked on a lighter, flipped it shut, and like elegant elytrons fell back and closed around the gloved hand in his lap.

‘Do you walk? Do you know how to walk? I had a certain Ciccio last year who absolutely couldn’t at all. Hopeless. After an hour he was already puffing. I on the other hand have a great need to walk. I could wear out a horse. You all think you know how to move but when put to the test: it’s torture.’ He laughed again, blowing smoke.

‘I walk, yes. At the barracks…’

‘None of that barracks shit—’ he interrupted, raising a hand. ‘Or maybe so? Tell me, tell me.’

‘It wasn’t anything important.’ I retreated.

He doubled over in a burst of laughter until a coughing fit forced him to sit back up on the sofa. He wiped the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief.

‘Magnificent!’ he said then, showing his teeth. ‘We have a Ciccio who thinks. A prudent Ciccio. Of course, a student. I had another one, some time ago. Philosophy: a real pain in the neck. You don’t seem like a pain in the neck. I’ll bet you think you’re shrewd.’

‘Not always, sir,’ I thought I should answer.

‘Capricorn?’

‘No, Aquarius,’ I said.

His lips curled in a grimace.

‘You too, an Aquarian. This won’t work. Two Aquarians together make nasty sparks fly. I don’t want to know which decade. Not for any reason in the world. Your lips are sealed, never let your decade slip out.’

‘Fine,’ I replied.

He coughed weakly. ‘Aquarian. From Piedmont. Business and Economy no less. And since you’re here, a humanitarian on top of it. I don’t get you, Ciccio. But why should I have to understand you? We’re under no obligation to understand each other, right? For a week, five days plus two: all we have to do is be able to tolerate one another. And walk at a trot. Right?’

‘Right.’

‘No, not right,’ he shot back triumphantly. ‘You’ll see why. Nevertheless, tomorrow, at seven. Here. Then the station, then Genoa, Rome, Naples. Been there?’

‘Not to Naples.’

‘Well, now. Finally we’ll accompany this Business and Economy Aquarian to someplace new. I was beginning to give up hope.’ He smiled, the cigarette clamped between his teeth.

Every so often his voice cracked into more strident syllables and accents.

‘I didn’t know we would be stopping in Genoa and Rome. If I understood right,’ I went on.

‘Stopping? Who said we were stopping? If I feel like it. If I get the urge. To walk and have a good time. Five days plus two: what do you care how you spend them? Were you hoping to shave a little something off the total? Are there some little sluts waiting for you? Tell me, tell me.’

‘No. No one waiting. I was just saying.’

‘Ciccio was just saying.’ He began getting to his feet with a broad yawn.

He was extremely thin, a twisted wire inside a jacket and trousers which accentuated his thinness even more. His tendons burst out of his shirt collar like props supporting his head.

Calmly he crossed the room, opened a cabinet and a bottle, poured a large glass of whisky and emptied half of it immediately. He sighed deeply before downing it completely. From the surrounding shadows an enormous grey cat appeared, approaching him soundlessly. It stopped in front of him, its tail swishing slowly back and forth on the floor.

‘This is the Baron,’ he explained, setting the glass back down. ‘Some monument, huh? Six years old. A colossus. Castrated. He hates my guts but watch out if I’m not here, if he doesn’t hear my voice. And when I am here, he always tries to trip me. He’s never managed to, poor Baron.’

The animal studied him, its face turned up, an electric charge running through its tail.

‘Angry as usual, huh?’ he said, bending over stiffly. He petted the cat, scratching the back of its neck between the ears. ‘Ugly eunuch. Vicious rascal. Tomorrow I’m leaving. You’ll see, the nice lady will put you on a diet. No more chopped meat. Fat roly-poly.’

The cat quivered, fuming. In distress it escaped the hand and disappeared into a corner.

‘He understands everything. I insult him and he hates me. Or vice versa.’ He laughed. From somewhere a rather short, flexible bamboo cane had already appeared in his hand.

He smiled, suddenly sad, tapping his calf with the tip of the cane. ‘I won’t deny that I would have preferred a level-headed country boy from the mountains. But maybe you’ll be an exception. We’ll see. Stand up.’

Before I could step forward he held out the bamboo cane, stopping me. He brushed my shoulder lightly with the tip.

‘You’re small. What the hell. Little more than a dwarf. Some Aquarian you are, a fake. How can we manage to walk with two different compasses?’ He swore.

Twisting his mouth he ran over me again with the bamboo cane, from shoulder to knee. His gloved hand was supported between the top two buttons of his jacket.

‘Bah. Let’s give it a try.’

He opened the door to the corridor, immediately kicking and swearing as he sent the strips of cloth behind it flying. I moved closer and with a swift, sure move his gloved hand slid under my right arm. I felt the rigidity of those bones, the tense nerves, the stiff bulge of iron and leather that bound the prosthesis just above his wrist. The sudden tug nearly made me lose my balance.

‘Idiot. What are you made of? Sawdust?’ he said, stopping. ‘Where do you think you’re going? To a procession? Walking is walking. Look sharp!’

We dashed ahead through the corridor, steps in sync, our pace faster and faster, with my right shoulder planted against his arm, and the cane held out crosswise to gauge my knee. Every few feet I felt the bamboo tip waiting to check my moving leg. After three laps back and forth he stopped abruptly.

‘It’s not working. No way,’ he decreed, without removing his arm from mine. ‘You’re not walking. All you’re doing is dragging your 130 pounds. If you don’t move your legs with some energy, they’re almost rigid, get it? You lose your behind, you leave it half a yard away, and you end up worn out after not even half an hour. You’re not at a funeral. Come on. Push with your gluteus, for God’s sake. Do you know what the gluteus is? Are you afraid to use it?’

We started all over again, and now his cane twirled at regular intervals from my knee to my rear end, checking them in rapid, rhythmic semicircles. At the fifth lap I saw a strip of light appear along the kitchen door and realized that the old woman was watching us intently.

‘Once more. And plant your heels on the ground. What are you afraid of? The waxed floor? Plant your heels. Leave their imprint on the wax.’

He stopped suddenly, making me lurch.

‘Another thing,’ he said, stock-still, the cane raised. ‘No wandering in your head. We’re walking. There’s no need to think. You think sitting down. You have to start and stop exactly in step with me. Understood? Like clockwork. And no sashaying like a streetwalker out for a stroll.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said, somehow managing to swallow a comment about the corridor being too dark.

We were back in his room, or maybe his study, where various massive components of a stereo system peered out from the corners. The cat was breathing loudly from beneath the couch. At the cabinet, he poured two glasses of whisky to the brim, and immediately held one out, his right hand extended in space.

‘Drink up.’

‘Actually I rarely drink. Almost never,’ I replied, taking the glass.

‘Really? I couldn’t care less. Five days plus two: with me you’ll drink. And no objections. When you can’t take any more, dump it out somewhere. In your pocket maybe. As long as I don’t notice.’ He laughed soundlessly.

I barely took a sip, then twisting my arm with the utmost caution, tried to set the glass on the table.

‘Hang on, Ciccio. Are you trying to be smart?’ He smiled calmly from the centre of the room. ‘Not with me, boy. Never with me. Finish it, now. And hand it back empty. A twelve-year-old whisky, you must be kidding.’

I drank some more, on my feet as well, a few steps away from him. I tried not to look at him, taking advantage of the darkness that made him seem transparent. His face had faded away towards the top, a grey film with no geometry.

‘Does it burn?’

‘No, sir,’ I replied.

‘You’re skinny. A skeleton. Bones are too sharp. I’ll get bruised up walking with you. I’ll fatten you up with whisky. However, I must admit that you don’t stink. The other Ciccio, your predecessor with typhus: ghastly. Every day before we went out I had to pour half a quart of cologne down his back. He smelled like a pigsty, like reheated minestrone.’

Ten minutes later I was out in the street, my eyes heavy, unable to orient myself. I had time before having to return to the base. I cursed the nothingness outside and inside me.

Standing on the sidewalk, before taking a step in the moist, sticky air, I looked for a friendly sign, a café.