'It's late,' she said, following me; 'the barber's been here quite a long time. He's waiting for you upstairs.'
'What time is it?' I asked.
'It's after one.'
'It was Angelo's fault,' I said; 'I'll go at once and get shaved and come down again.'
She said nothing and went out into the garden. I rushed up the stairs, four at a time, and went into the study. Antonio stood waiting for me beside the table upon which the razors were laid out; he welcomed me with a good morning and a slight bow. In a mad hurry I said to him: 'Quick, Antonio. . it's very late. Be as quick as you can,' and threw myself into the armchair.
I realized now that I was in a hurry mainly because I was hungry. In the early morning I had had nothing but a cup of coffee, my stomach was empty and my head felt dizzy, and my hunger brought with it a kind of irritability which soon showed itself when Antonio, with his usual slowness, began to unfold the towel to put it round my neck. 'Why can't he make haste?' I thought; 'I told him I was in a hurry. . Devil take him.' The composure of Antonio's movements, which formerly had so much pleased me, had now become hateful. I should have liked to tell him to hurry, but since I had already done so I saw that I could not repeat myself and this irritated me afresh. As he turned his back upon me and began stirring the brush round in the wooden soap-bowl, I followed his movements with an impatient eye, counting the seconds. My haste and my hunger increased simultaneously.
When he had worked the soap into a good lather, Antonio, holding the brush up in the air, turned to me and began soaping my face. He was unsurpassed in the art of concentrating upon his client's face a whole enormous mass of thick, white foam; but that morning his skilfulness irritated me. Every time the brush circled my cheek I thought it was for the last time, but always I was wrong: catching, with the point of his brush, a flake of froth that threatened to fall, Antonio would begin all over again, always with the same regular movement, to work up the lather on my face. I do not know why, but the idea of lying there in the armchair with froth all over my face gave me a feeling of absurdity; and — even worse — it almost seemed to me that Antonio consciously intended to make me look absurd.
This last suspicion was ridiculous and I immediately rejected it; but it shows how my hunger had upset me. At last, as the movement of the brush over my cheeks seemed to be going on for ever, I exclaimed angrily: 'I told you to hurry up. . and you go on and on soaping my face.' I saw Antonio throw me a quick glance out of those round, bright, astonished eyes of his, and then, without a word, he put down the brush in the bowl and took up the razor.
But, before he turned away and after I had spoken, he had not been able to resist a final whisk to the lather on my right cheek. I noted this gesture of his as an act of disobedience which, I felt, came very near to insolence, and my irritation grew.
He took a moment to strop the razor, then bent over me and started shaving me. With his usual lightness and skill he removed the greater part of the lather from my right cheek, and then stretched forward to start on the left. In so doing, he pressed with his body against my arm, and I, for the first time since he had been shaving me, was aware of this pressure and at the same time could not help remembering Leda's accusations. There was no doubt about it, as he bent over me he pressed his body against my arm and shoulder, and I, at this contact, was conscious of a feeling of frantic repugnance, I could feel the softness of the lower part of his stomach, which I pictured to myself as hairy, muscular and sweaty, and enveloped in linen of a doubtful cleanliness; and all at once, through my shudder of disgust, I seemed to understand that of my wife. It was a disgust of a particular kind, such as is inspired by this type of promiscuous, sensual contact which, though entirely casual, cannot but arouse, because of some quality in itself, the suspicion that it is deliberate.
I waited a moment, hoping that he would move. But he did not, nor, indeed, could he; and suddenly my disgust overcame my prudence. With a quick movement I drew back. At the same moment I felt the coldness of the razor as it cut into my cheek.
Immediately, from whence I know not, there descended upon me a fury of hatred against Antonio. He had at once drawn back the razor and was looking at me in astonishment. I leapt to my feet, raising my hand to my cheek from which blood was already spurting, and shouted: 'What on earth are you doing? Are you mad?'
'But, Signor Baldeschi,' he said, 'you moved. . you moved violently.'
'That's not true,' I yelled.
'Signor Baldeschi,' he insisted almost beseechingly, with the respectful, as it were heartbroken, moderation of a social inferior who knows he is in the right, 'how could I possibly have cut you if you hadn't moved?'
'Believe me, you did move. . but it's nothing much — just wait a moment.' He went to the table, uncorked a little bottle, took a piece of cotton-wool from a packet and soaked it in the spirit.
Beside myself with rage, I shouted: 'What d'you mean, it's nothing much?. . it's a very bad cut'; and, snatching the cotton-wool out of his hand, I went over to the mirror. The burning sensation of the spirit gave the final touch to my exasperation. 'So it's nothing much, eh?' I shouted, throwing away the blood-stained cotton-wool in a fresh access of fury. 'You don't know what you're talking about, Antonio. . and look here — you'd better clear out.'
'But, Signor Baldeschi… I haven't finished shaving you. .'
'That doesn't matter. . Clear out and don't show yourself here again,' I cried. 'I don't want to see you here again — d'you understand?'
'But, Signor Baldeschi. .'
'That's enough… go away and don't let me see you again. . never again. . get out — d'you understand?'
'Am I to come tomorrow?'
'No — not tomorrow nor any other day. . That's enough, I tell you.' I stood shouting in the middle of the room, the towel still tied round my neck. Then I saw him make a slight bow — an ironical bow, I dare say — murmuring 'As you wish'; then he went to the door and disappeared.
Once I was alone, my anger gradually calmed down. I took off the towel, wiped away the small amount of soap that remained on my face and looked at myself in the mirror. Antonio's cut had been inflicted at the moment when he had almost finished shaving me, so that my face, apart from the long red wound, was smooth. I soaked another piece of cotton-wool in spirit and disinfected the cut thoroughly. I was thinking, in the meantime, about the strange impulse that had driven me to dismiss Antonio, and I realized that the cut had been merely a pretext. I had in truth been wanting to dismiss him all the time; and at the first opportunity I had done so. But it did not escape me that I had dismissed him only when his dismissal no longer harmed me — that is, after I had finished my story. I was aware that, in consequence, I could not represent the barber's dismissal to Leda as a homage to her wishes; for, just as I had kept Antonio, in spite of her accusations, for selfish reasons, so now, for similar reasons, I had got rid of him. At this thought I was conscious of a certain remorse; and for the first time I understood that, perhaps without realizing it, I had not behaved well towards my wife. Meanwhile I was dressing and, when I was ready, I went downstairs.