A Life (38 page)

Alfonso replied boldly:

“I was there at the end of last month!”

Santo, who knew nothing of that, gave a gesture of surprise:

“Ah, really! But even so you don’t come as often as you did before.”

The note was sent. At midday Alfonso delightedly watched Santo leave the bank. Every minute that brought him closer to the time of his interview with Annetta gave him joy. His only fear was that Maller might take some step before this
interview
took place. No. If he had to accept any improvements in his position at the bank, he did not want them prompted by fear. Even rejecting his silly dreams of the night before he still believed this interview would destroy all misunderstanding. At the worst he would succeed in convincing Annetta that if they had loved each other and no longer did, this was no reason for mutual hatred.

He could not put down a single figure in his ledger, or even try and spot the mistakes which had caused so much trouble the day before. By evening his impatience was such that he left the office and wandered around the bank in search of someone with whom to talk and pass the remaining hour of waiting.

He went to Ballina and asked for news of the correspondence department; it seemed years since he had left it. Ballina as usual was having his supper at the bank, and that evening he cooked eggs on a gas stove, and ate them with bread and butter washed down by a glass of wine. He explained to Alfonso how little that succulent supper cost; scarcely seventy centesimi.

Alfonso envied him. Ballina was preoccupied, he saw, by his own health, and was very successfully coping with very unfavourable circumstances. He slept, so he said, like a baby, tired out after copying those endless names; his only worry was some Hungarian or Slav name with many consonants.

When Ballina left, Alfonso went to Starringer to waste another half-hour in the despatch department, which was humming with work. He ran into old Antonio who was in charge of taking
letters
to the post. The poor old man was walking along cursing the directors who signed letters so late. This was the despatch department’s usual complaint. Even Starringer trotted it out, and
Alfonso pretended to listen to him though not taking in a word in his impatience.

He did not leave the bank yet. Next he brushed his trousers and cleaned his shoes carefully with Miceni’s equipment; that was at least something to do.

It was a little over a quarter to eight when he left the bank, and he began to run, fearing to arrive at the rendezvous late. What would he do in that case? Such a delay might be without remedy.

The
sirocco
still persisted, but no rain had fallen during the whole day. Until nightfall the city had been covered with a slight mist, but that had also gone and the sky was clear, strewn with stars, moonless. A thin layer of slime covered the length of the paving stones.

At ten minutes past eight Alfonso had his first doubt whether Annetta would turn up. It was quite likely she wouldn’t. Without confessing it to himself, he had acted until then as if sure she loved him still; otherwise he could not hope that a girl who was engaged should take such a step. He realized he had written her a bad
letter
. He should have merely told Annetta he wanted to talk to her and awaited an indication of when and where from her. But it was too late to correct that now. He would wait until nine; and he leant against a parapet, patient and resigned.

He noticed a young man passing him for the second time and giving him a curious stare: he had already seen before that oblong face, with its fair moustache and penetrating look, and that long thin body. He looked after him; it was Federico Maller, he
recognized
him by his narrow trousers. Was this a coincidence or had Annetta given her brother a message for him? He had never liked young Maller and was sorry to have him to deal with, but now he must try and facilitate whatever duty the brother had taken on from affection for his sister.

Feeling Federico draw closer he turned to greet him but got a push which nearly flung him to the ground.

“Apologize, you swine!” young Maller yelled at him, raising a hand which in the darkness Alfonso thought was armed.

Did they want to kill him? He hurled himself on the thin figure, held the upraised threatening hand and seized young Maller by the throat. The other flailed towards the sea in an effort to break
free. Alfonso was panting and using much more strength than was necessary.

“I’ll throw you in the sea!” he threatened, giving him a push, but not hard enough.

“What manners people have in this town!” said young Maller disdainfully, putting a hand up to straighten his necktie.

“I thought you were trying to pick my pocket,” replied Alfonso indignantly.

He accepted Maller’s visiting card and proffered his own. His own seconds would call on Maller at twelve o’clock the next day, he promised. lt was a surprise to be behaving so correctly all at once.

So this was the appointment which Annetta had granted. She had made a quick decision, had an easy means to hand, and sent off her brother to kill him. Annetta too hated him, which grieved him; she did not think herself safe from him, and thought he must be suppressed so as not to have to fear him any more. Oh, she did not know him. In all the time he had loved her she had not realized how open and honest was his nature. That was the sad part, not that Federico would probably kill him.

He walked along faster and faster towards home. On the Corso he stopped for an instant, thinking Macario had passed. It was not him, but Alfonso wondered if it would be any satisfaction to take revenge on Macario by giving him a full description of his affair with Annetta. No. His only possible satisfaction would be to
convince
Annetta that she was mistaken about him. He would write her a letter, a dying man’s farewell.

Then he found himself sitting at his desk, pen in hand, but could not manage to put down a single word. Never in his daydreamer’s life had he been so completely possessed by a dream. He dropped his pen and put his head in his hands, longing to reflect but
dreaming
obsessively. Annetta wanted him dead! He longed for her to get her wish and then regret it. He imagined her reviving her love for him one day, and her visiting his grave to scatter tears over it. Oh! How sweet and calm it would be in that cemetery which he thought of as green and warmed by sun.

When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to find himself face to face with a sheet of writing paper.

He was to fight Federico Maller in an unequal duel, with his adversary having the advantages of both hatred and capacity. What had he himself to hope for? Only one way was open to him of escaping a fight in which he would play a wretched and
ridiculous
part; suicide. Suicide would give him back Annetta’s
affection
. Never had he loved her as he did at that moment. It was no longer a matter of self-interest or the senses. The further he saw her moving away from him the more he loved her; now that he had definitely lost all hope of re-conquering her smile, her
affectionate
word, life seemed colourless, null. Once he had vanished, Annetta would no longer feel disgust born of fear at the thought of him, and that was all that he could hope for. He did not want to live on and appear to her as a contemptible enemy whom she suspected of trying to harm her and make her pay a high price for the favours she had accorded him.

Till then he had thought of suicide only through the prejudices of others. Now he accepted it not with resignation but with joy. Liberation! He reminded himself that until a short time before he had thought differently. He tried to calm himself, to see if that feeling of joy were not a mere product of some fever possessing him. No. He was quite lucid. He assembled up in his mind all the arguments against suicide, from the moral ones of preachers to those by modern philosophers. They made him smile. They were not arguments but expressions of a wish, the wish to live.

He, though, felt incapable of living. Some feeling which he had often tried and failed to understand made it an unbearable agony to him. He knew neither how to love nor how to enjoy; he had suffered in the best of circumstances more than did others in the most painful ones. He was leaving life without regret. It was the one way to become superior to others’ suspicions and hatreds. That was the renunciation of which he had dreamed. He must destroy this body of his which knew no peace; while it was alive it would continue to drag him into the struggle, because that was what it was there for. He would not write to Annetta. Even the bother and possible danger of such a letter he would spare her.

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