It was then that I remembered the revolver. I began to think about it in somewhat the same way as I had thought of nursing another baby. The idea of it calmed me and I thought of it while I was making the bed or peeling potatoes or ironing Alberto’s shirts or going up and down the stairs. If I were to have another baby I’d be in constant fear that it might take ill and die. I was tired of being afraid, and now that I understood him there didn’t seem to be much point to bearing a child for Alberto.
Francesca came occasionally to see me, and she told me that she had a new lover. He was a man she had met with the countess at San Remo, and she had given up painting in order to spend all of her time with him. She said she had a weakness for him, but nothing too serious, and that he was somewhat of a gangster, so that I shouldn’t be surprised if I read in the paper one day that he had strangled her in her sleep. He was strictly no good, she said, and every time he left her she went to make sure he hadn’t broken into her jewellery. But he was a handsome devil, and she liked to be seen with him, because women all turned their heads to stare, and for quite some time he had been a fancy man to the countess. She said that the countess was an old bitch and a dreadful miser because she wouldn’t buy the picture she had painted of her. When the countess had come back from San Remo they had had a terrible row over Francesca’s new lover. Francesca didn’t want to hear any more of Augusto, and Augusto didn’t want to hear of her either. But Augusto came to see us very seldom because he was working hard to finish his book on the origins of Christianity.
Alberto read his notes to him and tried to interest him in his writing, but Augusto hardly paid any attention. He seemed to prefer being with me and often he hung about watching me iron shirts. I thought of the windy day when we had gone for a walk together and I had imagined making love with him. When I looked at his face I felt that he was a little like me, with his eyes continually staring into a well of darkness within him. For this reason I thought that we might be happy as lovers and that he might understand and help me. But then I told myself that it was too late, too late to start something new like falling in love or having another baby. It was too hard work, and I was tired. Looking at Augusto, I remembered the night at San Remo when the baby was taken ill and the night after, when I had lain clutching his hand. There are other things in life, I told myself, than making love or having children. There are a thousand things to do, and one of them is writing a book on the origins of Christianity. My own life seemed to me meagre and limited, but it was too late to change it, and back of all my thoughts now there was always the image of the revolver.
Alberto had begun to go out again. He said that he was going to the office, but I was sure that Giovanna must be back. He said that she wasn’t, but I didn’t believe him. Then one day Giovanna came to see me. It was in the morning, and Alberto had gone out, leaving me to type his notes.
This time Giovanna was dressed in grey with a round, straw hat and a sort of cape over her shoulders. Her hat and dress were new, but she was wearing the same worn gloves as she had worn before. She sat down and started immediately to speak of the baby. She said that she had written me a letter and then torn it up because it seemed silly to send it. I had been very much in her thoughts, she said, but she hesitated a long time before coming to see me, until finally she had put on her hat and come. I looked at her hat, and it didn’t seem to me like a hat that had been put on in a hurry. It was a stiff little hat, and I wondered if it didn’t press against her forehead. She spoke quietly and simply, as if she were trying not to give me pain. But I didn’t want to talk to her about the baby.
“It’s very odd,” she said, “but I dreamed about your baby for two or three nights in succession just before she died. I dreamed that we were in this drawing room, and Alberto’s mother was here, too, lying on the couch, wrapped in a blanket. She said that she felt cold and I threw my fur over her and she thanked me for it. The baby was sitting on a little stool, and she was afraid the baby might get a chill and asked me to shut the window. I had bought the baby a doll and I wanted to take it out of the package, but I couldn’t seem to untie the string.”
“The baby didn’t play with dolls,” I said. “She played with a ball and a camel.”
“I thought the dream was a strange one,” she went on. “I woke up in a state of anxiety, which I couldn’t explain. Then a few days later I got a letter from Alberto about the baby.”
I looked at her hard and tried to make out whether she had really had any such dream. I had a strong suspicion that she was making the whole thing up.
“He wrote only a very few words,” she said. “We had guests that day and I had to talk to them and entertain them. And all the time I was in distress. Strange to say, I wasn’t thinking of Alberto as much as I was of you.”
She sat in an armchair with her slender legs crossed, her hands folded underneath her cape, and her hat perched stiffly on her head.
“That hat must hurt you,” I said.
“Yes, it does,” she answered, pulling it off and revealing a red mark on her forehead.
I looked at her hard. She had a kind and peaceful expression on her face, and her body was peaceful and cool in her new spring dress. I imagined her picking it out of a fashion journal and ordering a dressmaker to make it. I thought of the succession of peaceful days that made up her existence and of her body that knew neither uncertainty nor fear.
“Do you hate me?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I don’t exactly hate you. But I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t see any point to our being in the same room. I think it’s stupid and ridiculous. Because we’ll never speak of really important things or be honest with one another. I don’t really believe you had that dream, you know. I believe you made it up on your way here.”
“No,” she said, and began to laugh. “I can’t make things up. Hasn’t Alberto told you that I have no imagination?”
“No. We don’t talk much about you. Once when we did talk about you he said that he didn’t think of you often when you were away. That should have made me feel better, but it only made me feel worse. It means that he doesn’t love anyone, not even you. Nothing is sacred to him. Once upon a time I was jealous and hated you, but now all that’s gone. Don’t think for a minute that he’s unhappy without you. He refuses to be unhappy. He just lights a cigarette and walks away.”
“I know,” she said. “You can’t tell me anything about him that I don’t know. You forget how long I’ve known him. Time has gone by and now we’re no longer young. We’ve grown old together, he in his house and I in mine, but together just the same. We’ve said good-bye over and over, but we’ve always come together again. He didn’t make the first move, that’s true. I did. But he was always very glad. We get on well together. You can’t understand him because you started off on the wrong foot.”
“Please go away,” I said. “If you stay any longer I shall begin to hate you.”
“Hate me, if you like,” she said. “You’re quite within your rights. Perhaps I hate you too. But I’m sorry your baby died. I have a child myself and I feel sorry for any woman who loses one. After I had read Alberto’s letter I couldn’t think of anything else all day. I was stunned.”