“I’ll be back in a fortnight.”
Then he turned the key in the lock, something he never forgot to do. I smiled at him as he left. The smile was still on my lips when I went back up the stairs and into my room, and I tried to keep it there as long as I could. I sat down in front of the mirror and brushed my hair, still with that silly smile on my face. I was pregnant and my face was pale and heavy. The letters I wrote to my mother had in them the same cowardly and idiotic smile. I hadn’t gone to Maona for some time because I was afraid of the questions my mother might ask me.
“You’re all I’ve got. Just remember that.” Yes, I had remembered; indeed these words had helped me to go on living from day to day. But little by little they had lost their sweetness, like a prune stone that has been sucked too long. I didn’t ask Alberto anything. When he came back to the house late at night I never asked him what he had been doing. But I had waited for him so long that a burden of silence had accumulated inside me. I looked in vain for something amusing to say to him so that he wouldn’t be too bored with me. I sat knitting under the lamp while he read the paper, cleaning his teeth with a toothpick and scratching his head. Sometimes he sketched in his notebook, but he no longer drew my face. He drew trains and little horses galloping away with their tails streaming in the wind. And now that we had a cat he did cats and mice too. Once I told him that he should put my face on a mouse and his on a cat. He laughed and asked me why. So I asked him if he didn’t think we two fitted into these roles. He laughed again and said there was nothing mouselike about me. Still he did draw a mouse with my face and a cat with his. The mouse was knitting, with a frightened and ashamed expression on its face, and the cat was angrily making a sketch in a notebook.
The evening after he had gone away for the second time Augusto came to see me and stayed quite late. He said that Alberto had asked him to keep me company sometimes in the evening while he was gone. I was taken aback and couldn’t find anything to say. He sat there with his pipe between his teeth and an ugly grey wool scarf thrown around his neck, staring at me silently out of his square stony face with the black moustache. Finally I asked him if it was true that he didn’t like me. He turned brick-red up to the eyebrows and then we had a good laugh together. That’s how we started being friends. Sometimes when two people don’t know what to say to each other some such trivial remark will turn the trick. Augusto told me that on general principles he didn’t like anybody, that the only person he’d ever really liked was himself. Whenever he was in a bad humour, he said, he looked at himself in the mirror and began to smile and then he felt positively cheerful. I told him that I had tried smiling at myself in the mirror, too, but it didn’t do any good. He asked me if I was in a bad humour very often and I said yes, I was. He stood in front of me with his pipe in his hand, blowing smoke out between his closed lips.
“That woman, Augusto…” I said. “What’s she like?”
“What woman?” he asked.
“The woman who goes on trips with Alberto.”
“Look here,” he said. “It’s no use talking about her. Besides, it doesn’t seem right.”
“I don’t know anything about her,” I said, “not even her name. And I torment myself trying to imagine her face.”
“Her name is Giovanna,” he said. “And her face — well, her face isn’t anything special.”
“Isn’t she very beautiful?” I asked.
“How should I know?” he said. “I’m not an expert on beauty. Yes, she’s beautiful, I suppose, when you come down to it. Or at least she was when she was young.”
“Is she no longer young, then?”
“Not so very,” he said. “But what’s the point of discussing her?”
“Please,” I said. “I’d like to be able to talk to you about her once in a while. It gets on my nerves to mope all by myself. I don’t know a thing, you see. I didn’t even know her name. I feel as if I were in the dark, as if I were blind and groping my way around, touching the walls and the objects in the room.” My ball of yarn fell to the floor and Augusto bent over to pick it up.
“Why the devil did you two marry?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I made a mistake. He wasn’t very keen on it, but he didn’t stop to think. He doesn’t like to think about important things. In fact, he hates people who are always searching inside themselves and trying to find some meaning to life. When he sees me sitting still and thinking he lights a cigarette and goes away. I married him because I wanted to know all the time where he was. But the way it turned out, he knows where I am — I’m just sitting here, waiting for him to come home — and I don’t know where he is any more than I did before. He isn’t really my husband. A husband is a man that — well, that you always know where he is. And if someone asks you: “Where’s your husband?” then you ought to be able to answer without hesitation. Whereas I don’t go out of the house for fear of meeting people I know and hearing them ask: “Where is he?” Because I shouldn’t know what to answer. You may think I’m very silly, but I don’t go out of the house.”
“Why did you marry?” he repeated. “What got into you?” I began to cry. “It was a hell of an idea,” he said, blowing the smoke out of his mouth and then staring at me in silence. He had a stubborn and gloomy expression on his face, as if he refused to be sorry for me.
“But where’s Alberto?” I asked him. “Do you know where he is now?”
“No, I don’t,” Augusto answered. “I’ve got to go. Good night.” He scraped the ashes out of his pipe with a matchstick and took his coat off the chair. Now his tall and solitary figure was standing in the doorway. “There isn’t anything I can do about it,” he said. “Good night.”
I couldn’t close an eye all night long. I imagined that Augusto had fallen in love with me and I was his mistress. Every day I would go to meet him at a hotel. I would come home very late and Alberto would search my face agonizingly to see where I had been. But when Augusto came to see me again a few evenings later I was ashamed of all the things I had imagined. He picked up my ball of wool when it fell to the floor, filled his pipe, lit it, scraped the ashes out of it with a matchstick, and paced up and down the room, while all the time I imagined how we would make love in a hotel room and blushed with shame at my own imaginings. I didn’t speak again of Alberto and myself and neither did he. We didn’t know what to talk about, and I had an idea he was as bored as I was. Only I was glad we had become friends, and I told Alberto as much when he came back. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t look very pleased. He shouted and made a great fuss in the bathroom because the water was too hot and he couldn’t find his shaving brush and the other things he was looking for. He came out of the bathroom freshly shaved, with a lighted cigarette in his mouth, and I asked him if this trip had been any more of a success than the one before. He said that it was a trip like any other and not worth talking about, that he had gone on business to Rome. I said I wished he wouldn’t go away again before the baby was born because I was afraid of what might happen if I had pains during the night when I was all alone. He said I wasn’t the first woman in the world to have a baby and if I was so nervous it was just too bad. We didn’t say anything more, but I cried over my knitting, and then he went out, slamming the door behind him.
Augusto came to the house that evening and I kept him in the drawing room, where Alberto told him that he’d been on a business trip to Rome and thanked him for keeping me company. A little later Gemma called me into the kitchen to look over the household accounts, and when I came back the two men had gone into the study. I wondered whether to join them there or to wait in the drawing room, and after considerable hesitation I decided that there was nothing so strange about my going to join them. I picked up my knitting and started to go into the study, but the door was locked and I could hear Alberto saying: “It’s quite useless.” What did he mean? I sat down in the drawing room and began to count stitches. I felt tired and heavy and the baby stirred inside of me. Then and there I wanted to die with my baby, to escape from this torment and not feel anything more. I went to bed and to sleep but woke up when Alberto came in.