Scent of a Woman

10

‘Vincenzo, Vincenzino, what’s come over you? Where are you? Did you have to disappear just now? How can we play if you’ve disappeared?’ the girls cried.

But the lieutenant had dragged himself over to an armchair in the next room, done in by too much food and drink.

‘Leave him alone,’ he said.

He moved his index finger towards the fanned out, upturned hands, began touching a palm.

‘No tickling!’ Michelina shrieked, shaking her hand and holding it out again.

‘Be still. Quiet, imbecile,’ the others protested, excited and very intent.

The finger explored cautiously, lightly.

‘A charming mount of Venus: you’ll reduce men to ashes,’ he pronounced gravely.

‘Me, me!’ the others were already urging.

‘One more thing, please, the heartline,’ Michelina pleaded, focused on her palm, on the finger exploring it.

Sara looked at me, she too with her hand outstretched, and a submissive smile that made her seem more tired. I withdrew to the table to station myself in the cross breeze from the two fans. The heat pressed down like a second skin: not a breath of fresh air from the terrace. Even the fans blew sultry currents of air.

Minuscule residues of ice still floated in a soup tureen. Plates, bowls, cutlery, glasses were piled up in great disarray, covering every last inch of space; a measure or two of champagne, now lukewarm, stood in the bottom of the remaining bottles.

The game continued amid the girls’ dazed, edgy laughter. They sat in a circle on the couch, while he, drunk, elbows propped up, indulged in the role of judge.

‘The heart line, mine too.’

‘And this double M, can you feel it? What does the double M mean?’ The breathing of the lieutenant in the other room lay heavily in the pauses, like a death-rattle.

Earlier there had been a song contest while still at the table, after some moribund attempts to make a toast.

‘But not a whole song. God help us. Just a stanza. Something humorous. And if you don’t know one, forever hold your peace,’ he had decreed.

Ines had quickly stood up reciting: ‘Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked.’

‘That doesn’t count. It’s a tongue twister, not a song.’ Candida and Michelina spitefully rejected it.

‘Who will win the chocolate medal?’ he continued, his fork playing a tune on the plates and glasses. ‘Come on, Ciccio, let’s hear you for once.’

Certain of the effect, with my head buzzing, I belted out:

Through the howls of laughter the lieutenant’s husky voice could be heard from the head of the table. ‘You may be witty, but let’s not sink to indecencies…’

‘Keep quiet, Vincenzino, be good, is it or is it not a party?’ the girls retorted.

‘Don Vincenzo, don scamorza the wimp,’ he scolded him rudely.

But no one could come up with anything more. Eyes bright, they tried to recapture buried shreds of memories, traces that quickly faded on their lips. And a vague awkwardness, distress, in the air.

‘Well then,’ he said impatiently.

‘It’s Sara’s turn, Sara’s turn.’

‘Sara, sing? Dream on. She wouldn’t deign to.’

‘Sara’s not here. Don’t you see she’s not here?’

‘You’re right. I’m not here. Don’t bother me.’ She dismissed the girl with a cross look.

Finally it was he who sang, unexpectedly, in a tremulous, gradually more fluid voice, almost moved by the slow measured pace of the stanza, as we listened in a daze:

‘Oh, Fausto,’ the words escaped from Sara’s lips.

‘And this is your idea of humour?’ was the lieutenant’s reaction.

‘You’re right,’ he conceded, strangely downcast, his hand already searching for the glass. ‘Next. One of you now. Quick.’

‘Some party. What fun. A celebration of the Day of the Dead,’ the lieutenant, annoyed, went on complaining, using it as an excuse to get up from the table.

Sara had been quick to knock over a bottle and distract her sister and her friends, who were quickly urged to wipe up and clear away.

‘I don’t love him. Why don’t I love him tonight? Dear God, I can’t stand him,’ she murmured in a corner of the terrace.

She wrung the fingers of her left hand in her other fist, her glistening eyes ringed with dark circles. She tried to take a deep breath but broke off midway, as if suffocating, and ended up twisting her mouth into a grimace.

‘Can you understand? Do you see?’

‘I think so,’ I answered, mentally resigned.

‘I’d like to see him dead. Gone. I wish he no longer existed. I can’t stand it any more. What do you think? That I’m made of stone? Someone who has no feelings?’

She knotted and twisted the poor little chain around her neck.

‘If you want, I’ll speak to him. I can try,’ I said patiently.

She refused, shaking her head.

‘And those three idiots. Listen to them. Three birdbrains. They think they’re at the circus,’ she protested more wearily.

‘It’s late already,’ I said.

‘We’ll be here till daybreak. I assure you we’ll be here till morning,’ she replied with cold, stubborn anger. ‘I’d like to see them all annihilated. Like animals. Smashed, that’s what they are. Unfeeling drunks. Never would they recognize someone else’s sacrifice.’ The words spewed out like bullets.

‘Don’t overdo it. We know how it is, Sara. All he’d have to do is lift a finger…’

Her chin trembled, her shoulders dropped.

‘Lift a finger. Right,’ she replied stiffly. ‘I’d run. Am I or am I not a faithful dog? I’d have to run. But that’s all it means. The chill he managed to instil in me tonight! And I’ll tell you this: if I were wise, I’d thank him. For the help.’

I leaned on the railing to gaze at the silent city rolled out in lights, and the infinite inky stain of the sea. High above, a constellation glimmered faintly, lost in the mists; a short time earlier the muffled roar of a plane had faded in a drawn-out rise and fall.

‘It’s my fault, mine alone. It’s this defective head of mine. I should chop it off, toss it in the trash,’ she went on protesting, a bitter, more ironic tone in her voice, ‘incurable fool that I am.’

‘It’s always our own fault.’ I played along to keep her company. ‘We’re the ones who fabricate, add lustre to other people.’

‘You’re right.’ She breathed out, attempting a smile. ‘Him too, poor thing. What should he do? Give me a well-aimed kick, so I’ll get it once and for all? It’s here, here’s where there’s a screw loose.’ She twirled a finger at her temple.

Then: ‘If only my father were still alive, at least. He’d be able to understand. And your father? Is he living? Do you think about him?’

‘He is. But I never think about him. I don’t know why.’ I hardly knew how to answer her.

My mouth felt as though it were on fire from the sauces and the wine, but my brain still reacted lucidly to every stimulus: words, objects standing out vividly in the light, the corner of the piano, the girls’ knees as they sat on the couch.

‘Now look at them!’ she exclaimed. ‘They’re obscene. Not because of what they’re doing, but because of the slightest thing that drives them. Hollow reeds, empty heads.’

In the harsh light of the living room his right hand felt around, encircling and measuring, one after the other, the three ankles lined up in a row. The girls were laughing, first wiggling their feet, then bracing them. They had lost their spontaneity; a sudden awkwardness made their movements more confused and apprehensive.

‘A real woman is lord and master of her ankles,’ he pronounced, swaying precariously.

‘Do you hear him? Did you hear that? The rubbish that comes out of him. I could kill him,’ Sara whispered in the darkness, listening intently.

Michelina and Ines had crossed legs to fool him, holding their skirts tight around their knees in bursts of modesty. His thumb and forefinger formed a ring, measured, then uncertain, went back to check.

‘Guess, guess!’ the shrieks implored.

He knelt down as if sliding off the chair, and carefully fingered them, his thin back curved and his breath laboured.

In the end he gave up with a bored gesture and sat down again, no longer laughing.

‘Now I’m going back in and I’m going to slap them. All of them. First them, then him. A backhander like you’ve never seen,’ Sara said.

But she had already turned around, her elbows on the railing. A childlike yawn crumpled her face.

‘Sleepy?’

‘Ready to drop,’ she sighed, ‘but I’m not leaving. Not even if I fall dead asleep. Here I am and here I stay.’

‘You’ll see: in a minute he’ll be the one to come looking for you.’

‘I hope he doesn’t!’ She tried to laugh.

‘I’m going to look in at the lieutenant.’

‘He’s asleep. He’s always sleeping, that one. Overwhelmed by his own stomach,’ she replied wearily. ‘Come back soon, will you? Don’t you too leave me here stranded.’

Later on I found him in the bathroom. He was leaning on the edge of the tub, the water roaring out of the tap.

‘Is it Ciccio? Good thing. Sit down. Listen how nice it sounds. Water, water,’ he faltered, muddled, behind his spent cigarette. ‘Stay here. Let’s talk man to man.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Confusion. Chaos. Don’t you feel like your head too is full of ninepins?’

‘It’s late, sir.’

‘Always late. Never late. Late for what?’ He laughed weakly, flinching. He had lost all tension, his thin body swimming like a straw inside his jacket, his shirt rumpled. The rigid glove on his left hand no longer obeyed him, swaying as if it were unscrewed.

With a struggle he pried out his watch, handing it to me.

‘Here. A gift.’

‘Why, sir? I can’t.’

‘Don’t be a fool. Take it and put it in your pocket. Always. It’s the only rule.’

‘No, sir. Thank you, but no.’ I refused more firmly.

‘Because it’s gold or just because it’s special, for blind people?’ He laughed again, turning it in the palm of his hand.

‘You promised me a wallet. That’s fine. I’d be happy to have it to remember you by. But not the watch,’ I said.

He stuck out his lips, already bored. A purplish shadow hollowed out his cheeks; above his collar the folds of skin were pallid and sweaty.

He slipped out his wallet.

‘Here. Is that okay?’

I gave up arguing. I emptied the money and documents from each compartment, put them back in the inside pocket of his jacket. He put up with it with no reaction, his shoulders slack.

‘That girl—’ I began.

‘Who? What?’

‘Sara. In there. She deserves at least a word.’ I spoke loud enough to be heard above the noise of the water.

‘Sure. Of course. Why not?’ he nodded, swaying. ‘And then we’ll call the Baron. My poor Baron. All alone up north. You call too. No excuses.’

‘Of course, sir. But right now…’

‘I’m going, you matchmaker. I’m going. I can never say no to anything. “Matchmaker” isn’t as offensive as “pimp”. That’s why I didn’t say pimp. See, I didn’t call you that. Right?’ he laughed, his teeth parting a little. The cigarette fell. He picked it up, held it passively between fingers that seemed unable to grip.

‘Never keep the girls waiting. Divine creatures. Always knew it. A man knows.’

‘I wasn’t talking about the girls. Just Sara,’ I said firmly.

‘Sara. Right,’ he repeated reluctantly, wrinkling his nose.

‘Things are quieter now, the lieutenant is asleep, if you go and sit out on the terrace, Sara…’

‘Don’t bury me with words. For God’s sake.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘I’m going. You keep quiet. Everyone, quiet. And don’t turn this off. Leave me this water.’

He got to his feet, overcoming the tremor of his muscles, straightening out his neck and shoulders.

‘I’m a dead man, Ciccio.’

‘Sir…’

‘A dead man. What do you know about it? Shut up. A raving dead man.’ Rigidly he dragged one foot after the other in the hallway, his right hand stretched out in front of him. ‘A drunken dead man. Drunk and disorderly. Is the lieutenant asleep? That stuffed scarecrow. In a quarter, half an hour: everyone out of here. Got it?’

‘I’ll take the girls home. Don’t worry about it,’ I assured him.

He laughed shrilly. ‘Worry? Why should I worry?’

His right hand groped along the wall.

She was sitting opposite him, arms folded, listening to him talk as he sprawled in a wicker armchair.

Ines was leafing through an old magazine, Michelina and Candida, sulking, went back and forth with piles of dishes, trays overflowing with glasses.

Every now and then the heat of the night seemed to give way to a shiver of damp freshness.

The bright promising jumble of the disorderly room spread out before me as a place that constantly avoids the world’s order. Already it was rushing to hole up in some corner of my memory.

Is this all there is to life? I wondered, but dreamily, with no real curiosity.

Ines removed her glasses to give me an uncertain smile. I shrugged with curt, deliberate shyness, and did not move. Fatigue pricked at me here and there, but my head was still alert, eager.

Sara sat through it, frozen, her profile a spot barely visible in the darkness of the terrace. He went on talking, his left hand tucked into his jacket, his right hand slowly waving his cigarette.

Nonsense, naturally. Because every so often I saw Sara, pained, cover her eyes with her hand, as if to shield herself; then she took a breath to draw strength, no longer having the heart to interrupt him, counter his arguments.

He went on and on. His dark head, in stark contrast to the white suit, was thrown back against the backrest of the chair as he uttered all sorts of incoherent insults.

I felt a great temptation to move closer, to overhear a few words.

Sara, doubled over, was trying not to cry, bewildered by that endless stream of words, the faint laughter, that rained down on her, leaving her no way out. She faced him squarely, weakly arching her back, and still he gave her no respite, his teeth and glasses glinting at the slightest move of his head.

Ines stood up, came towards me languidly, her myopic eyes reddened. When she reached the piano, she too turned around to look at them, critical as she took their measure out there, the two of them so different.

‘Two actors. Old school, what’s more. Out of fashion,’ she then remarked softly but firmly. ‘Know what I mean?’

‘You’re wrong,’ was my only response.

She stared at me in disappointment, her glasses hidden in her hands. ‘Don’t tell me you too really take them seriously? I would have thought you were more savvy,’ she mocked listlessly.

‘At least I respect them,’ I said.

She made a nervous gesture, still pondering them through the glass door.

‘Respect, hah! They don’t impress me one way or the other,’ she said firmly. ‘What kind of shining example are they supposed to be?’

‘An example, I don’t know. But they seem exceptional.’

‘Time to go,’ she concluded, annoyed. ‘Sound the muster, soldier.’

Downstairs in the courtyard I finally managed to slow down beside Sara. The others walked ahead more swiftly, legs dancing a jig.

‘I don’t want to pester you, but if you want to tell me,’ I began. ‘Was he his usual self? Diabolical?’

She shook her bent head no, biting her lip, intent on studying the courtyard’s cobblestones, which formed broad black and white stripes.

‘If you want I’ll be quiet. Easy to do,’ I tried again. ‘But it’s a mistake.’

‘Hopeless. You wouldn’t understand. No one would understand,’ she replied, though not harshly.

Then suddenly raising her voice in exasperation, ‘Where on earth are you all running to? Let’s enjoy this breath of air.’

The girls, already at the door, stopped uncertainly; she crossed the courtyard and sat on the step of a dark, narrow staircase that led up into the maze of walls. The smell of damp grass was all around us.

Slowly the girls came back, holding hands, unhappily stifling yawns.

‘Sit down,’ Sara ordered irritably.

They obeyed after spreading out their handkerchiefs, no longer in good spirits, their heads now nodding.

‘A swim would be good, a dip,’ Candida’s faint voice sighed softly. ‘A nice drive and then a swim. Let’s go.’

‘Why don’t you get the car, Sara?’ Ines said.

‘Dear God, if Mother hears us, at this hour! She’ll stab each and every one of us.’ Candida laughed. She was resting her temple on her friend’s shoulder; the two faces close together stood out like a single bright spot.

‘That Vincenzino. What a dud! I’m really sick and tired of him now,’ Michelina said.

‘He does that every time. Eats and then goes to sleep. Some company. What are we? Nurses? Octogenarians in a home?’ Ines added.

‘Decent, a good man, that’s all they say about him. But who cares about these good men? Are we supposed to become nuns, maybe? And then too, how should he be? Bad?’ Michelina complained.

‘Still, the party was fun.’

‘Thanks to Fausto. Only because of him.’

‘The things he comes up with.’

‘Fausto is insane. No doubt about it.’

Sara was looking up to where the pinkish glow of lights rose beyond the terrace.

‘You’re better off giving him up,’ Ines tried to tell her.

‘I know,’ was her calm reply.

‘What? Who would have guessed? It’s the end of the world.’ Ines laughed, surprised. ‘Sara and her great love, her passion…’

‘Don’t make fun of her. You make fun of her, then she takes it out on me all day. Leave her alone,’ Candida protested, her eyes closed.

‘And you, don’t you know any funny stories?’ Michelina asked, not looking at me. ‘You don’t talk much. How come? Or is it that we talk too much? Your girlfriends in Turin must be talkers too. Listen: do you know the joke about the transplant? Two friends meet after many years…’

‘No,’ Sara cut her off sharply. ‘Shut up.’

‘Oh Sara. Stop it.’

‘Shut up, I’m telling you. That’s nothing but bawdy filth. It’s not appropriate,’ she scolded.

‘It’s not appropriate,’ the others mocked.

‘Did you really say you were giving him up?’ Ines went on in another tone, curious.

‘I said it. You heard it, didn’t you? So then I really said it,’ Sara replied coldly.

‘Did he treat you badly? Did he insult you?’

‘What did he say to you?’

‘Was it malicious? But he had been drinking and you…’

‘That’s enough. What does it have to do with you? Mind your own business, if you have any,’ Sara retorted harshly.

A faint breath of air began to drift down slowly from above. The square of sky between the rooftops still looked dark.

They shifted their shirt collars to feel the cool freshness, a few hands fanned the air to blow more life into the modest breeze.

‘Sara G. wouldn’t have had a good ring to it. I can’t picture it,’ Michelina sighed.

‘The surname test again, as usual. Kindergarten children, that’s all you are,’ Ines snapped.

‘You. What’s your last name?’ Candida asked.

I told them, lowering my voice for some reason, whereas when they talked they trumpeted every word.

They began pairing up my last name with their first names, one after the other, interrogatively or affirmatively, laughing, intoning each syllable, first quickly then stressing them, the better to judge the combination, the sound.

‘The only one it goes well with is Ines!’ Candida finally laughed.

‘The surnames of the north: curious, even appealing, but harsh, they have no music,’ Michelina pronounced.

‘Silly fools. You’re nothing but three pathetic fools,’ Sara assailed them in a sudden outburst. ‘Ineffectual birdbrains. Why must I always have you around me?’

‘Oh sure, your brain is rational, falling for that unfortunate loser,’ Ines rejoined angrily.

The agreeable affability on the steps unravelled in a rowdy brawl.

‘Either you keep that malicious mouth of yours shut or I’ll—’ Sara threatened, already on her feet.

‘Or you’ll what? Go ahead. Tell me. Say it. Just try it, I’d like to see you!’ the other girl shrieked.

Candida and Michelina were watching me, waiting for me to intervene. But it was Sara who got sidetracked.

‘Why did that light up there go out?’ She remained rapt, staring towards the terrace.

We all turned, the greyness of the distant windows just visible at the top of the wall.

‘Why did he need to turn off the lights? Why would he?’ Sara asked again, peering up.

I didn’t have time to say a word.

The first gunshot, though from a closed room high among the walls, came roaring down on us, the sound already shattered in endless reverberations.