Scent of a Woman

5

…Maybe it’s all because of my low self-esteem. Idiotic and pointless to try to fool oneself: therefore I must predictably blame my modesty, that is, my mediocrity… Otherwise I would have known: even his most absurd words, vicious, hostile, would have managed to stir something in me, real intelligence or real rebellion. Not pity, because pity alone comes and goes and is of no use, but a different way of looking at the world, at life: seeing it and seizing that life in its most enigmatic senses, and laughing at it, laughing at the good and bad in it, with it, as he can, albeit atrociously… Maybe I’m just a poor, miserable individual who scrapes by on the piddling, presumptuous stash of his reasoning and doesn’t even enjoy the impulses, good or bad, of youth…

That’s what I was thinking, as the train plunged along in the night, he asleep in his corner, his head bowed, wobbling as the seat shook, his right hand in his lap. He had drunk too much, up until our departure time, and took some pills as soon as we boarded the train.

Violent whistles from the front of the train broke the dark silence of the night.

I watched him with the utmost care, marvelling up and down at the scars and pockmarks on his face, the impeccable knot of his tie, the slim wrist of his right hand, the lithe firmness of his crossed knees. Even the motion of the train added to his degree of gracefulness, rocking him with subdued languor, and I realized how that gracefulness constituted a perfect shell for the desperate fury that lay within it.

I envied him, in some obscure way, for the effect he had managed to create of himself.

His merciless words, that attitude of contempt, were then abruptly overturned in my mind and I finally saw how funny they were, so slyly charged with diverse tones, really laughable. I clamped my mouth shut to contain the burst of laughter that surged in my chest.

Who knows what his everyday life is like? I thought, in that house, with his cousin, the cat, the corridor, the whisky in the cabinet. But it seemed impossible even to guess. I couldn’t imagine him, picture him, on some street or piazza or the Lungo po, Turin’s river walk. Maybe for him too this trip meant a temporary escape from a limbo of routines, trapped one inside the other.

It seemed miraculously blessed not to know.

I went out into the corridor; the dark glass reflected me as a vague silhouette of uncertain contour. Leaning at the window I tried to peer into the night, a black void that for a split second suddenly fractured into shadowy walls, poles, signs, deserted gates slashed by vivid lights, and was then quickly restored.

In the reflection of the glass, my forehead pressed against the pane, I saw my eyelid, shiny and dark, the grain of the skin enlarged, the eye’s moisture quick to reappear after each blink.

And I remembered him in bed at the hotel, without his dark glasses, the gaunt, livid, turbulent splotch of his face against the pillow.

I had eaten. I had convinced myself not to wear my uniform. The new suit continued to console me, and now the surprise of that earlier, furtive laughter made me feel good.

I thought about something nice to say to him, later on or the next day in Rome. Maybe a special kindness would make things easier for both him and me. I couldn’t think of any particular words or gesture, but that vague determination was enough to cheer me up.

Kindness, yes, or even some humour: that’s what I should stick to, to make our trip a pleasant one.

There were few passengers on the train, just two or three in each compartment and almost all of them asleep. A solitary woman at the back, an elderly lady with an open book. The smell of old dust, of newly oiled door handles and other hardware was not unpleasant. We would stop twice more before Rome, arriving there in the early morning.

I avoided looking at my watch, content at feeling suspended within the protective shell of the journey, by the idea of the city to come, in that silence that freed you of any obligation. I promised myself I would write at least two postcards home from Rome.

Turning, I looked at him again, motionless in his corner, his right hand closed around the glove on his left, his chin nodding in submission to the train’s rocking. Everything seemed right, elevated to a higher order.

He awoke at a more abrupt jolt, his hand immediately searching for his cigarettes.

‘Hey there, Ciccio. Still hanging in there?’ He yawned.

‘You didn’t sleep much.’

‘I made a mistake: vitamins, not sleeping pills, damn. I must have had too much to drink.’

‘I’ll say.’ I laughed.

He laughed too, swallowing to get rid of the bitter taste of sleep in his mouth.

‘What about you? Get any sleep?’

‘No. But I’m fine. I even ate. There are just a few people. It’s quiet.’

‘Almost too quiet,’ he agreed.

‘Are we staying long in Rome? Nearly two days have already flown by,’ I asked.

He sighed. ‘Who knows? I have a cousin who’s a priest. He writes to me all the time. I should drop in. Have we passed Pisa?’

‘Not yet.’

He made another face to cleanse his tongue and palate.

‘A mint. That’s what I need. Since I don’t have one…’ he said taking the flask out of his pocket. Then, but politely this time: ‘You take a sip first.’

‘Thanks.’

Intersecting beams of light cut through the thick darkness. Perhaps we were nearing Pisa. A train passed us sending back vivid blasts of colour.

‘Once I had a girl with enormous breasts. Like pumpkins.’ He muttered, pretending to be sullen. ‘While we slept, she would turn around and routinely give me a K.O. with one of those things of hers. What a life, can you imagine?’

We started laughing. He drank again, held the bottle out to me, and when I handed it back he did not put it in his pocket.

‘And a colonel of mine? His own words, I swear: during the war, in Africa or Russia, I don’t remember, as a lowly lieutenant heavily in debt because of poker, he always volunteered for the most foolish missions. For each mission there was an award. Cash: ready for him to get his hands on immediately, if he came back alive. He was scared to death, but without poker he would have dropped dead even sooner. And so he managed to get two silver medals and a promotion besides.’

The train slowed up as it neared Pisa. The night shattered into slivers of light that eventually began to glide alongside us more closely and systematically. Amid the gloom of a valley, a large reddish smoke plume from a foundry or cement works made the ridges of the hills appear harsh.

‘Yeah. That’s how life should be.’ He sighed, relaxing reluctantly, a tremor on his lips.

The gentleman who got on at Pisa had a new suitcase. He was tall, elderly, with white hair. He sat down and gave us a polite smile before leafing through the newspaper.

‘We have a visitor, Ciccio,’ he said.

The gentleman looked up, gave a broader smile over his newspaper.

‘I noticed the compartment was nearly empty,’ he said mildly. ‘But if I’m disturbing you…’

‘Heavens, no!’ He laughed. ‘Make yourself comfortable. Want to have a drink with us?’

‘Pardon?’ the other man murmured.

He held out the flask.

‘I said: do you want to have a drink with us? Are we or are we not in Tuscany?’ he tossed back in an even tone.

‘Well, ah, really…’ the man said, quickly summing us up. ‘Look, I think you’ve more or less emptied your bottle. Thank you. I wouldn’t want to…’

‘Impose? Please do,’ he said leaving him no way out. ‘There’s a reserve in the suitcase. Oral ammo. Twelve-year-old labels only.’

The man thanked him again, took the flask, held it in his hand a moment, warily winked at me as a sign of understanding, then handed it back with a thank-you.

‘Truly excellent,’ he added.

He took a sip.

‘Well. A cheat,’ he then pronounced.

‘What’s that, sir?’ I said.

‘We have a cheat at our side. Yeah. Maybe he thinks he can put one over on us. Watch out, Ciccio.’ He laughed sadly.

The man gave a slight start but did not respond. He went back to his newspaper.

‘Don’t let him get away, Ciccio. Otherwise, with the excuse that we’re drunk, Mr Cheater will run off.’

‘All right, sir.’

The man refolded his paper, doubtful and troubled, then tried tapping a finger against his temple, his eyes questioning. I shook my head no.

I had to accept the flask again and drain the last drops.

The gentleman had just started to stand up when he grabbed him with his right hand forcing him to remain seated.

‘Please. My dear sir,’ – he laughed – ‘you wouldn’t want to deny this human piece of wreckage here a little conversation, now would you? You, Ciccio, stand at the door. That’s a good boy.’

I slid the glass door of the compartment shut and leaned against it. I was just a little foggy, but with a kind of urgency in my body, itching for a brawl, some words, some action.

The seated man was prepared to be tolerant. His butter-soft face focused.

‘Were you in the war?’ came the question.

‘Of course. Ethiopia and later…’

‘Not me. Just peacetime for me.’ He laughed, abruptly raising his gloved left hand up to his face.

There were beads of perspiration on his lip.

‘Forgive me,’ the man began, ‘I greatly respect your condition. I wouldn’t want…’

‘My condition? What condition? Do I have a condition, Ciccio?’ he interrupted the man.

‘What I mean is, I understand. Believe me. I’m old enough to have seen the world and to realize that…’

‘An Italian old enough. Who knows what a filthy swine he secretly was. Right? Without hesitation. Presto!’ He laughed.

But the laughter immediately froze on his lips as he drew them into a pitiful grimace.

The man again sought support by looking over at me. I shrugged and gave him a wicked grin. Every move I made surprised me with its promptness and arrogance. The smell of whisky tickled my nostrils.

‘Listen, sir,’ the other man went on, ‘I don’t know you and I’m sorry. If you will allow me…’

‘You’re not allowed.’

‘I only wanted to introduce myself,’ the man responded meekly.

‘And I have no intention of knowing your useless name. Too bad for you if you say it. Be anonymous. It suits you!’ he shouted.

With some difficulty the man recovered a ghost of a smile and tried to change the subject. ‘Excellent. Well, let’s just say: I feel like I’m in a real night-time adventure. A little something unexpected doesn’t hurt.’

‘Ciccio, the gentleman is asking for something unexpected,’ he said. Then: ‘You, Anonymous, have you met Ciccio? Known as the terror of the two seas.’

He moved closer until he was just a few inches from that pale face. The man straightened up and backed away at least a little.

‘I’m drunk, your Excellency.’

‘That’s fine. Quite all right,’ the gentleman rallied. ‘Every so often it’s just what’s needed. A release. I always say…’

‘Not a thing. You don’t say. You can’t say.’

The man leaned back against the seat, trying hard to regain a modicum of breathing room. He was sweating, his wrinkled eyelids quivering without their normal control.

‘I’m the one who’s going to say something. Know what it is?’ he threatened. ‘That we’re in a rotten country.’

‘A rotten world, for that matter.’ The man laughed shrilly in a burst of relief.

‘Granted. But above all a rotten country. Where your rotten breed is more clueless than anywhere else,’ he shouted.

‘Now I understand,’ the gentleman nodded. ‘You’re not Italian, and so…’

‘Me, no. That’s right. I’m only from Turin,’ he concluded, tired.

His chin was wobbling spasmodically. His right hand slowly flailed about before he was able to get a few more words out. He shrank back into his corner.

‘Raise those fine flags high, so they don’t pick up the stink on your hands,’ he breathed with some difficulty.

He appeared wiped out.

The gentleman began to rise cautiously, quietly took his suitcase and newspaper, then went out to the corridor, quickening his pace at once.

He handed me the empty flask, pointing to the suitcase. I climbed on the seat and rummaged about, shuffling things in confusion, until I found the other whisky.

‘Go away, Ciccio.’ He coughed, his fingers uncertain as they struggled with the metal cap. ‘Go and have a proper conversation somewhere else. Aren’t there ever any girls on these goddamn trains? For you, I mean. I need to sleep now.’

‘We had a good time,’ I said.

‘Huh?’ He looked up for a moment, his smile bewildered. ‘Yeah.’

‘He ran off quicker than a rabbit,’ I tried again, ‘like the conductor yesterday. This guy too: who knows what he’ll have to say about this trip?’

He made a vague gesture, writing it off in the air.

‘You open it.’ He held out the flask.

‘Wouldn’t it be better if…’

‘Please,’ he suddenly groaned despairingly. ‘Open it. And that’s that. No preaching.’

I unscrewed the cap and handed back the flask; he clasped it with his hand against his chest. ‘Still here? Go on, go. Beat it. I have to try and sleep. That’s all. Don’t give it a thought. Please.’

I went back into the corridor. In the surrounding darkness, streaks and glimmers of a first tenuous light appeared.

Every spiteful urge had left my body, seeped away; a bland sense of peacefulness soothed my muscles and my thoughts.

Soon the countryside would unfold in feminine undulations. Maybe I would see horses and long-horned cattle wandering loose among the patchwork of fields. And conical haystacks topping gentle slopes.

The two syllables of the word Ro-ma rolled on my palate like a precious morsel of great sustenance.

I no longer had the heart to turn around, to spy on him in there.