Scent of a Woman

3

Shortly after noon the wind picked up, sudden, torrid gusts that tore in, raising dense swirls of dust, paper, dry leaves, and ruffling the foliage of the trees in the middle of the piazza.

‘Marvellous!’ he said, delighted, taking in the first breath of air. But we soon withdrew inside the café.

Through the windows, beneath a sky that was becoming more lively, I saw a sliver of the harbour, a crane, the stern of a rusty ship. Tiny flags fluttered in a row, straining against the wind’s constant lacerations.

We had already been to a shop where, at vast expense, he had bought a pale blue suit and a shirt for me, a white linen suit for himself. They would be delivered to us at the hotel by that evening, after a few adjustments and stitching up the trouser cuffs. We had then walked swiftly down a sloping street, he cheerfully and silently waving the cane in front of him, his arm under mine, increasingly prodding me to step up the pace.

‘And this afternoon, a good barber,’ he said in a satisfied tone.

By now, the receipts on the table for the various drinks formed a kind of fan anchored by the ashtray. The waiter arrived with a fifth of whisky.

‘Are we eating at one?’ I asked. My head was spinning from the two vermouths I had drunk shortly before.

‘Right. Food. You must be hungry,’ he replied, jiggling the ice in his glass. ‘Who knows if I was that hungry when I was your age. I can’t remember a thing. No recollection. I’ll give you an hour’s leave. For now I’m not eating. Go to the counter and see if they have any decent sandwiches. But don’t have them brought to me: just look.’

I got up. There were sandwiches of various kinds under large plastic lids. Lettuce leaves peeked out from the edges. The young man behind the counter wore a stained, filthy apron. He was examining his hair, faithfully reflected in the bottles behind him. He glanced at me a second with that indifference that everyone displays towards a soldier: a transparent entity who doesn’t even disturb the view.

‘There are a few. Not very clean,’ I said when I returned.

‘A little dirt is the least of it in these parts. So then, scram.’ He sent me off, handing me some money: ‘Here. Eat. Go to the port, so you can take a look at the girls.’

‘What girls?’ I asked, surprised.

‘The usual. Never heard of them?’ he mocked, but good-naturedly. ‘There are droves of them at every large port. Dark-skinned too if you want. In short, those girls.’

‘I’d rather eat!’ I laughed.

He shrugged, annoyed.

‘I meant, while you’re walking. Or do you turn the other way when you see them? Born yesterday.’

‘All right, sir.’

‘Check out a few. You never know,’ he concluded drily. He snapped open his watch. ‘Be back here at two. No later.’

Outside I bent over against the wind, exhilarated to be alone and by the thought of the new suit. But as I neared the port, that freedom already seemed unexciting. I realized to my surprise that I would have preferred to see him eat in front of me, I imagined his gestures at the table, the inevitable insolence towards the waiter.

I had the sea to my right, obstructed by port machinery, and a scruffy wall on my left. Keeping close to the wall, I saw several eateries down some narrow steps. I stopped in front of baskets full of shellfish on display; further on a sluggish grey fish floated in two inches of water. A waiter quickly appeared and gave me the once-over, so I started walking again, turning around to glance down the length of the port: colours, prows, rows of smokestacks and cranes, even the wind seemed calculated to me, like a scene in a film. My eyes ached and even the distant din of noises and voices, perhaps from a market beyond the wall, hurt my head which was already pounding from the vermouth. At the next sign I decided to stop. The trattoria was deserted, and from the kitchen doorway the owner gave me an indifferent look.

I felt like I had been gone too long, caught up in a bubble that was not uplifting but oppressive, and I felt vaguely homesick for my city, whether home or the base.

A postcard for my mother, I thought.

I chose quickly from the menu – anything to hurry it up – then sat and waited, looking at the dessert trolley.

‘I assure you, sir. Not one grey hair. Allow me…’ the barber repeated quietly, leaning over. ‘Even here at the top, a critical point, everything looks fine.’

‘Good, good,’ he replied curtly.

The manicurist was already crouching wordlessly at his right, attending to his nails, filing them, and he, draped in a double sheet, leaned back and let himself be shaved.

I could see his face in the mirror, divided in half by his dark glasses. Little by little the shaving cream hid the scars and those dark pits, tiny, as though made by a gimlet. The barber moved around him with very special care; the girl too worked with concentration.

Until she drew back the nail file in alarm: ‘Oh I’m so sorry, sir,’ she said, pausing.

‘It’s nothing, dear. Nothing at all,’ he replied gently.

‘Did something happen?’ the barber asked with concern, gesturing at the girl angrily.

‘For heaven’s sake, no! Go on, dear. Continue. It’s fine,’ he said again.

The girl leaned over with a cotton ball, ever more solicitously.

The barber was having a hard time starting a conversation. Two or three times he threw me a look that I was careful not to meet. He was old and pale. In the back of that shop of his, a young errand boy, his hair slick with brilliantine, was reading the sports pages in a secluded corner.

‘How was she?’ he asked as soon as we left.

He had left a big tip; all three of them had rushed to open the door for us.

‘The manicurist? Skinny. Not bad looking, but tiny, not even ninety pounds,’ I explained.

‘If only I had known. I would have given her a kick. Ugly bitch,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘I can’t stand the sound of the file to begin with. Imagine when it jabs you.’

We walked briskly though the street was uphill. The wind had died down, the lights opposite the first floors weren’t swaying any more. I felt sweaty and a little tired, and I was itching to go back to the hotel and try on the new suit.

Instead he said: ‘Feel how fresh the air is. How it should be. Wind – or better yet, rain. Then fresh air like this. That gets you going. Hurray.’

I could depend on his thirst though. The little pocket flask was most certainly no longer full, and in fact we soon sat down at a café. A rectangle of cleansed, luminous sky topped this new unfamiliar piazza; sunset was still a long way off. At one end, near a newspaper stand, a group of tram drivers milled around scoffing at one another in soft lilting voices. The dense maze of trams parked at the end of the line stood in full sunshine, the light splintered through plate-glass windows. It occurred to me: a newspaper, remember to get a newspaper to read in bed tonight. And for some reason the baseness of that thought mortified me.

‘I could go for something to eat. But no. Better not. Otherwise I’ll have no appetite tonight,’ he said, taking a deep breath after his whisky. ‘Speaking of which: the girls. Tell me about them.’

‘The ones at the port? I didn’t see many,’ I answered.

I tasted my ice cream, after he made me pour a good inch of liquor over it.

‘Snap to, Ciccio.’ His voice was calm, but with a restrained seething that was anything but reassuring. ‘Your predecessor, illiterate as he was, could find them even under rocks. That’s all he could talk about, unfortunately. How could you rely on him? He liked them all. You: loosen your tongue.’

I spoke, trying to remember, and here and there inventing things. I gathered that I would do well to go on talking about a certain woman dressed in orange in the doorway of a bar.

‘Was she tall? Very tall?’ he asked.

‘Tall, yeah. Like you. Very tall.’

‘Well go on, for Christ’s sake. Are we playing around here? Do I have to drag every word out like pulling teeth?’ He lost his patience. Two fingers had already made the glass clink on its plate for a second round. A waiter rushed over.

‘I told you everything, I’m sorry. It’s not as if I spoke to her,’ I said. ‘She was at the door of a bar. By herself. Tall. With black hair. Long, thick black hair.’

‘Her hair was black. But not her skin. Her skin wasn’t too dark, right? Pale skin: the best.’ He smiled into space.

‘Dark? I don’t think so. Pale. Yeah, definitely. Not thin though. All in all, a rather big woman.’ I was fed up.

‘Just what I wanted to hear!’ He laughed excitedly, tapping his foot. ‘A fine big woman. But young. That’s how I like them, Ciccio. Tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow, what?’ I said.

‘Tomorrow we’ll go look for her. You’ll look for her for me. You must remember that bar, for God’s sake.’ He went on smiling, drumming under the table. ‘Wonderful.’

‘But I…’

‘But you, what?’

‘I wouldn’t know how.’

‘Oh, you wouldn’t know how. What the hell do you mean? How to talk to her? To that girl?’ He laughed, pleased with himself. ‘Don’t worry. You tell her the truth: no more, no less. She says ten. You come back with fifteen. What are you afraid of? Being taken for a pimp?’

‘A pimp? Well, that’s not what I meant. I don’t know, I guess,’ I replied clumsily.

‘Don’t act like an idiot all of a sudden.’ His tone changed, a faint trace of anxiety beneath the usual assurance. His hand moved as if to touch my arm, stopped. ‘What harm is there? I don’t want to force you. But where’s the harm? We go there, you talk to her, then you accompany me there, you wait for me and that’s the end of it. Not even an hour, you’ll see. Right?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He wanted to have dinner before going back to the hotel. At the table, in a melancholy, deserted restaurant, he was soon full after some prosciutto and soup with an egg in it. He toyed with a few grapes without eating any of them. He hardly spoke, distracted, his cigarette smouldering in the ashtray. He had no interest whatever in what I chose, no questions.

His mood changed, however, as we walked back to the hotel. I heard him whistling an old tune, the bamboo cane cheerfully chopping the air in front of us.

The sky had matured into a dark green; in the distance pink and grey walls could be seen sloping in terraces up the hill. But everything I saw seemed unfamiliar to my eyes, images of a world that wasn’t mine, even alien to mine, which disappeared soon afterwards without a trace.

He drank some more before going up, and I had to wait beside him at the bar. Hidden behind his newspaper, the guy behind the bar barely glanced at us.

Then: ‘Why tomorrow with that girl and not right now?’ I threw out. ‘Wouldn’t now be better? While we’re here. Tomorrow we have to leave.’

But he objected in a voice that had become faint and distant.

‘No, not tonight. Not at night. Then too, I’m not ready yet. I have to think about it. We’ll leave tomorrow night. But in the afternoon, with our new suits: a nice shot of life. Trust me Ciccio, it will do me good.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Upstairs, I walked him all around the room, which he auscultated and mastered in just a few minutes, testing with rapid strokes of his cane. The big bundle of new clothes lay on a chair, impressive in its impeccable wrapping.

‘We’ll open it and try them on tomorrow. No hurry,’ he said tiredly. ‘Is the suitcase on the table? That’s all for now. Go. I’ll call you in half an hour.’

I waited sitting on the bed, not daring to undress. When he called me, he was already in bed, in his pajamas, his gloved left hand on the folded sheet, the ashtray, watch and cigarettes close by.

‘You bought a newspaper. From Turin? Good. Sometimes it has the best marriage ads in the world. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable,’ he said. ‘Read, right now.’

I began: ‘Tall bank clerk, F, 39, from the north, athletic, good family, would like to meet a tall…’ I went on reading until the end of the two half-columns, not stopping despite the fact that my mouth was dry.

He smoked, listening attentively, occasionally letting out a brief laugh, an indecipherable mumble. He nodded, twisting his mouth, waved his hand in the air in ironic approval, false pity. Against the whiteness of the pillowcase, his face stood out as though bruised by the harsh light that flooded the room.

‘Cut out the one about the attractive, refined, 4-foot-9, artistic temperament,’ he said finally. ‘It’s definitely one of the good ones. In my suitcase, in the accordion pocket, there’s a large envelope. Put it in there. I have hundreds of them. I collect the most amusing ones. When you’re feeling down, there’s nothing better than having someone reread them all to you.’

I obeyed, and remained standing at the foot of the bed a moment. Through the wall the hum of the elevator found its way in. Voices rose and were swallowed away.

‘Go on to bed, Ciccio. Good night,’ he said ruefully. ‘Oh wait. I was forgetting my good deed.’

He had me bring him the folder containing envelopes and sheets of paper with the hotel’s letterhead.

‘Do you have a pen?’

He leaned the folder against his knees, holding it firmly with his gloved hand, unfolded a sheet of paper and after carefully feeling its edges with his right index finger, began writing. Slowly, one great big letter after another, none of them connected: an upper-case ‘S’, then an ‘h’, an ‘i’, a ‘t’…

The slanting stroke of the last letter almost ran off the sheet. ‘It’s for my aunt. You remember my cousin the aunt,’ he said handing me the folder. ‘Don’t be shocked. She’s used to it. She enjoys it. She pretends to get angry and then she complains to the Baron, who becomes hydrophobic. Let’s not forget to mail it tomorrow. I’ll dictate the address.’

As I wrote, he again broke into a laugh, but coldly.

‘Now go. Get some sleep. If you can.’ Idly lifting the gloved hand, he added: ‘I have to take this off. If only I could remove my head too.’

‘If you want I’ll help,’ I said.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Suddenly he blasted out, teeth clenched: ‘Most of all don’t be hypocritical. Because that’s what you are: a hypocrite. You have no life. You have no blood. A pile of ashes. That’s what your twenty years amount to. But I don’t give a damn. About you and all those like you. Incompetent fuckups, that’s all you are. With your idiotic Sunday-school compassion. Go on, go grab some zzz’s. By now I’ve got your number. I know you think you can get by by keeping your mouth shut. Get out of here. And don’t think you can go out now. If I find out you went out I’ll fix you good for the rest of your military service. Now scram. Reveille at eight.’

I was more stunned than hurt by that dizzying barrage. Dragging my feet, I took refuge in my room.

It was hot. The air was stale and sour; I opened the window. Down below lay a deserted alley sunk in darkness. The sounds of the city droned all around, sharper and more strident than those of the nearby station. My legs felt stiff but my mind was far from being able to sleep. Leaning on the windowsill, I smoked a last cigarette, trying not to think of what a nobody I was.

In the middle of the night I woke up, immediately gripped by a vague fear.

The light in the other room, still on, helped me make out the shape of a door, a closet. On tiptoe I leaned in to take a look.

He was asleep, elbows and knees in a chaotic jumble. Some kind of white covering was wrapped around the stump of his severed left arm. Without the protective shield of his dark glasses, his face was exposed as a mask of carnage.

The whisky flask was on the table, next to a vial. Sleeping pills, of course.

I coughed, banged a chair around. He didn’t move.

Trying not to look at that face any more, I stepped into the room. I saw a number of ties laid out in tissue paper in a box in the suitcase. At the bottom, underneath the shirts, a hard triangle. The revolver in its holster. Then, two bottles.

Behind me I heard his pinched breathing.

In the bathroom, his gear was all meticulously lined up along the edge of the sink: toothbrush and toothpaste, sponge cloth, cologne, a soap still in its wrapper, two brushes.

I sniffed the cologne, slipped a cigarette out of the box left on the table.

I felt petty and foolish, but also seized by a senseless, demented joy of spite and revenge. I did not, however, get up the necessary courage to open the package of new clothes. Next to the suitcase I saw his ID cards. I read the dates: thirty-nine years old. And the name: Fausto G.

I stood there for a moment, torn between the thought of making myself take another manly look at that face and the vain hope of erasing any memory of it now and forever.

I gave up the idea. Like a coward.

Back in my room, I sat down on the edge of the bed, the tasteless cigarette unappealing in the palm of my hand.

A steel-grey light was already faintly outlining the contours of the shutters. The double whistle of a train sank into the silence without a lingering echo.

I won’t be able to stick it out all the way to the end, I thought from some remote corner of my mind that still remained alert.

I lay back down on the still warm pillow, my eyes closed.