“It’s warm in here,” she said, taking off her fur. She had on a green knitted dress with a red G embroidered over the left breast. The dress wasn’t especially pretty, and she had large, heavy breasts, wide hips, and thin arms and legs. She looked around and remarked: “The house is just the same. I used to come here sometimes when Alberto’s mother was alive.”
“You came to call on the old lady?”
“Yes,” she said, laughing, “I came to play draughts with her. She was very fond of me. But she was a terrible tyrant. It’s a good thing she died, because she’d have made life miserable for you. You’d have had to play draughts all day long, and if you’d forgotten yourself and won a game she’d never have forgiven you!”
“It’s been miserable enough without that,” I said.
Then she asked me if I had a picture of the baby. I showed her one, and after she had laid it down she drew a picture out of her own handbag.
“This is my son,” she said. And I looked at a boy with bright eyes and full lips, wearing a sailor suit. “He won’t study,” she said. “Boys are hard to handle. It’s much better to have a girl. He won’t do his Latin. But the teachers are too hard on them.”
I made tea and we drank it with some biscuits that she said were very good. The muscles of my face were taut and I felt very tired and ready for her to go. I wanted to ask her about the orchestra conductor and how she had met Alberto and fallen in love with him. But all I said was:
“Do you love him very much?”
“Yes,” she said. “Very much indeed.” She put her cup down on the table and both of us stood up.
“It’s been eleven years now,” she said. “I couldn’t give him up.” All of a sudden tears came into her eyes. “No, I couldn’t possibly do it. I’ve thought of it often enough. I’ve been unfaithful and lied to him and said the cruellest things. We’ve sworn to put an end to it, then we’ve begun all over again, and I may say that now I know how much I love him. I can’t give him up. I’m sorry.” She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. Then she blew her nose and rubbed her face, shaking her head at the same time. “I’ve been unhappy; I was on poor terms with my husband from the start. I’d have left him long ago if it weren’t for the boy. He’s not a bad man and I suppose he loves me in his own way. But we haven’t anything to say to each other and he thinks I’m silly and queer. For a long time I thought I really was as silly and queer as he said. I tried to live up to what he expected of me; I went out and gave little tea parties and chatted with all the ladies. Then I was bored to death and gave up trying. He was terribly angry at first and made dreadful scenes, but finally he got over it and we settled down to tolerating one another. That’s the way it’s been with me.” She put on her fur and gloves and tied a net scarf around her neck. “If I’d married Alberto,” she said, “I might have been a different woman. Stronger and braver and more energetic. And perhaps he would have been a different man. Don’t think I like him the way he is now. I know his weaknesses very well, and sometimes I find him positively hateful. But if we two had married it wouldn’t have been the same. We met too late. We’re stupid and don’t know what we really want when we’re young. Life runs away with us before we know what it’s all about.”
She took my hands in hers and squeezed them. She had a sad, hesitant smile on her face; perhaps she was wondering whether or not we should kiss each other good-bye. I put my face close to her cold face and had the scent of it in my nostrils for a second while we kissed.
“Too bad I didn’t see the baby,” she said as we went down the stairs.
After she was gone I realized that there were other things I wanted to say to her. But I was relieved to be alone and feel the muscles of my face gradually relaxing. I lay down on the sofa with a cushion under my head. It was dark outside. I always missed the baby when evening came and wondered if my mother was tucking her in tightly so that she wouldn’t toss the blankets off in her sleep. I went into the kitchen and lit the gas under a kettle of soup. Then I called the cat and threw him some scraps of cheese.
I had thought that after seeing Giovanna I should feel more peaceful, and as a matter of fact I did. An icy calm spread through me. Where before there were fantastic but silent images, now I saw a woman drinking a cup of tea and showing me a picture of her son. I felt neither hate nor pity. I felt nothing at all. Inside there was a great black hole that made me even lonelier than before. Now I realized that those silent images of Giovanna had somehow peopled my solitude and kept me company. I was alone now, and when my hand groped for the picture I had made of her it found only an empty black hole and withdrew with a withering chill upon it. The real Giovanna who had sat in the armchair near the window did not hate me, and I did not hate her; indeed, there was no relationship of any kind between us.
I wondered when Alberto was going away and wished it would be soon. But he couldn’t seem to make up his mind. I watched the bookshelves gradually empty themselves as every day he packed a few more books away in the zinc case. When they were altogether empty, I thought to myself, he would go away. We hardly talked to each other at all. I made lunch and supper and ironed his shirts because Gemma was away. He polished his own shoes and sometimes he helped me clear the table. Every morning I made his bed while he stood by the window waiting for me to finish.
I didn’t tell him about Giovanna’s visit, nor did I know whether or not she had told him. A few days later I went to Maona to get the baby. I meant to tell my mother that Alberto and I were separating, but when I saw her I didn’t say anything. She was slicing ham in the kitchen when I arrived, and the baby had a cold. I said she must have tossed off the blankets in her sleep, and at this both my mother and father took offence. I went back in the bus with the baby in my arms and Gemma weeping like a fountain beside me because she was leaving her family. While we were rolling among the hills and fields that bordered the highway I held the baby tight and tried to imagine the time when we would be alone together. My mother had pinned her hair up in two braids around her head, and her thin, bare face had a new alert but melancholy expression. I had a feeling that she knew what had happened. She sat on my knees, crumbling a biscuit in her fingers and putting an occasional piece in her mouth. She didn’t talk yet, but she seemed to understand everything. When we reached home we met Alberto coming out of the gate. He took the baby in his arms and kissed her, but she only started to cry. He set her down on the ground, shrugged his shoulders, and went on his way.
I telephoned Francesca, and when she came to see me I asked her if she felt like taking that long-delayed trip to San Remo with the baby and me. I told her that probably Alberto would leave in the next few days and I didn’t want to be around and see him go. She was very pleased and said we’d go to the Hotel Bellevue, where they served hot ice cream every Saturday night. I asked her what that was and she said it was vanilla ice cream with a hot chocolate sauce over it. She looked up the trains and made all the arrangements in no time at all.