“Of course,” Maurizio’s father said calmly.
“I’m not so sure,” Maurizio’s sister interjected, but it seemed to Sergio that her tone was even more unrealistic than her father’s. By implying thought, her doubts gave her an air of obtuseness even greater than that created by her father’s absence of doubt. Desperate and terrified, Maurizio’s mother shifted her jewelry case from one arm to the other and said: “For all I care, the English can win, or the Germans … I just want someone to win so we can forget all this!”
“Don’t worry, darling, the Germans will win the war and we’ll all be fine … Don’t worry yourself,” Maurizio’s father said, affectionately, patting her on the back. Maurizio, who had said nothing until then, asked suddenly: “What about you, signorina, who do you think will win the war?”
He was speaking to the elderly governess. She answered quickly: “Signor Maurizio, I don’t understand such matters … I don’t even read the newspaper … If you told me that neither the English nor the Germans, but rather the Chinese, were going to win the war I would have to agree … After all, what can we do about it? It’s not up to us …” She went on; her tongue, which had been frozen in terror, suddenly loosened. Brusquely, Maurizio said, “Come on, Sergio …,” and turned to his family. “Sergio and I are going to take a look around.”
“I’ll come with you,” Maurizio’s sister declared. Sergio had noticed that she had been staring at him since their arrival, gazing at his face with a curiously intense, provocative gaze. He vaguely remembered
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rumors that circulated about her: that she was strange, perhaps crazy, and obsessed with only one thing, love. They set off down a corridor in silence. Maurizio walked ahead, his hands in his pockets, whistling quietly. Marisa took Sergio’s arm and whispered: “You don’t mind, do you? I’m so frightened.”
Maurizio touched the wall. “They’re oozing with moisture; they must be built into an embankment.” Without turning around, he added, “Sergio, do you have a cigarette?” Sergio said no, somewhat uncomfortably.
“I’ll go get some from my father,” Maurizio said, heading in the opposite direction. As if she had been waiting this whole time for her brother’s departure, Marisa pressed her body against Sergio’s side, whispering, “Don’t you remember me? I remember you perfectly … You are a bit younger than me … but you know … back when you used to come by to see my brother, five years ago I think it was … I fell in love with you … but you never noticed.”
They had reached the darkest point in the corridor. Sergio stopped, slightly agitated. Marisa touched his arm and searched for his hand: “You must be terribly unkind … You’re always so serious … You never smile.”
Sergio looked around. He had no feelings for Marisa, but the touch of her hand and the clear invitation it implied had an effect on him. A bit farther ahead there was a small red light, revealing a dark doorway. He stepped toward the light, but she held him back: “Wait a minute … I need to tell you something.”
“What do you need to tell me?”
“I can’t say it out loud … I’ll whisper it in your ear.”
He echoed her words, “In my ear,” his voice filled with doubt. He could just make out a dark figure standing in the doorway, vaguely illuminated by the dim red light. It looked like a feminine form, but he could not make out the face. He could feel someone
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looking at him; the woman seemed to be watching them. Marisa whispered: “Come closer, and I’ll tell you.”
Mechanically, and still peering at the dark shape tucked into the doorway in the half light of the red bulb, Sergio leaned forward slightly. He felt Marisa’s mouth glue itself to his ear with a circular motion of her soft, moist lips, like a suction cup. Marisa’s tongue began to caress his ear, quickly and conscientiously. He felt aroused and at the same time embarrassed. Marisa kissed his ear until she was forced to come up for air. As she leaned back, she whispered breathlessly: “Got it?”
“Yes,” he answered, in a daze, feeling simultaneously embarrassed and aroused.
“So, what do you say?” she asked, boldly.
They heard Maurizio’s voice calling out to them as he returned, carrying a pack of cigarettes. “Marisa, Mamma wants you … She’s afraid you’ll get lost.”
The young woman squeezed Sergio’s hand conspiratorially and said under her breath: “Call me tomorrow.” Then she let go of his arm and went off, exclaiming, “Why on earth would I get lost?” Her footsteps disappeared around the corner.
Maurizio walked over to Sergio: “Did you know that there are lots of little rooms down here where the museum’s masterpieces have been hidden away? I just went into one. There was a Bernini statue in a kind of case.” He lit a cigarette, adding: “Let’s see what’s in here,” walking briskly toward the doorway where the dark, motionless figure stood.
Sergio felt embarrassed, as if the mysterious, dark
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figure were about to jump out of the shadows and accuse him: “I saw how you let Marisa kiss you.” Maurizio, who was a few steps ahead of him, did not seem to notice the figure who had witnessed Sergio’s embrace, or pretended not to. “It’s so dark in here,” he said, searching in his pocket for a flashlight to light the ground before him. As the beam illuminated the doorway, two small but sturdy feet appeared. They belonged to a woman. They looked like two small, fat doves roosting quietly side by side. Sergio noticed that the feet were clad in simple low-heeled shoes, almost masculine in design, and heavily worn. Then the beam slid up her bare legs, which were not quite fat but not slender either, with white, healthy-looking, hairless skin and a tender, child-like shape. The beam illuminated the edge of a simple red dress; it made the legs appear even more prominent, with their healthy, innocent air, more infantile than womanly. The young woman’s hips were rather wide, Sergio noted, and her waist not particularly slender; like her legs and hips, there was something solid about her. And then her chest: two mounds protruding under the light fabric, high, solid, and at the same time soft. She had a lovely round neck, and a serious face, with a frank, straightforward beauty and a serene forehead hidden by a lock of brown hair. Her eyes were prominent, light-colored, and clearly outlined, and her nose was small and straight, with flared nostrils; she had pale lips like a fruit or a flower. It was a face with classical proportions, almost marmoreal and characterized by a dreamy, dignified serenity. She was a young woman, but could almost have been a prepubescent boy. She observed them with some diffidence; perhaps because of the light, her eyebrows seemed to express worry. Maurizio held the flashlight up to her face a moment longer, then shifted it slightly to the
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left. In the darkness of the small room, they could see a wooden structure. There, between two pieces of wood, a face was visible. It was very similar to the girl’s, but made out of marble. It was a statue from the museum’s collection, with a serene, pale expression and white eyes that stared out into the darkness. It was surprisingly similar to the real, human face that the flashlight had revealed a moment earlier. Sergio whispered: “Did you notice how much they look alike?”
“Who do you mean?”
“The girl and the statue.”
“Do you know who that is?”
“Pauline Bonaparte,” Sergio said. As if to evaluate Sergio’s powers of observation, Maurizio aimed the beam of light at the face of the young girl and then at the statue, going back and forth until finally the girl called out, in an irritated voice: “Have you finished blinding me with your flashlight?”