Her Husband (12 page)

Something else must be behind it, and something else there was. Dora Barmis whispered into Raceni’s ear with fierce joy: “He’s afraid the journalists will mention his name this evening! And I’m sure they will! And they’ll put it on the first page, with his name first! Who knows, my dear, where he told Signora Frezzi he was going. And here he is. He came here. . . . And this evening Livia Frezzi will read the newspapers. She’ll read his name first, and imagine the scene she’ll make! Crazy jealous, I’ve already told you! Crazy jealous. But to be honest, with good reason, it seems…. For me, anyway, there’s no doubt about it!”

“Be quiet!” Raceni said aloud. “What are you saying! He could be her father!”

“
Bambino!”
Barmis then exclaimed with a smile of commiseration.

“Frezzi will be jealous! You know it, but I don’t,” Raceni insisted.

Signora Barmis held up her hands: “But all Rome knows it, for God’s sake!”

“All right. What does that mean?” Raceni continued excitedly. “It’s
unlikely she’s both jealous
and crazy!
She’s probably only crazy. . . . But on the opening night he left after the first act. All the gossips saw it as proof that he didn’t like the play!”

“For another reason, darling, he left for another reason!” Signora Barmis said in a singsong voice.

“Thank you. I know! But which reason?” asked Raceni. “Because he’s in love with Silvia Roncella? You make me laugh if you say that. It makes no sense! He left because of Frezzi, I agree! But what does that mean? Everyone knows he’s that woman’s slave! And that woman nags him! And he’d do anything to keep peace with her!”

“So he comes here?” Signora Barmis asked shrewdly.

“Certainly! He comes here! Certainly!” Raceni replied with irritation. “Because he knows how his leaving the theater would be viewed by the gossips, and he’s coming to make up for it. He’s upset, of course! He didn’t expect all these people. He’s afraid that this evening she, like you and all the others, will gossip about his coming. But heavens! If it were otherwise, either he wouldn’t have come or he wouldn’t be so upset. That’s obvious!”

“
Bambino!”
Signora Barmis repeated.

She had to stop there because Signora Roncella was getting ready to leave the waiting room, between Maurizio Gueli and Senator Romualdo Borghi, with her husband clearing the way, to go take her seat on the train.

Every man took off his hat, and hurrahs were heard along with a long burst of applause; and Giustino Boggiolo, already prepared and waiting, looking here and there, smiling, beaming, with eyes shining and cheeks aglow, bowed in gratitude many times, instead of his wife.

Left alone in the room behind the glass door, sobbing into her perfumed hankie, was Signora Ely Faciolli, forgotten and inconsolable. Cautiously glancing sideways with his large rumpled head, the cripple Cosimo Zago hopped with his crutch to the place on the sofa where a short time ago Signora Roncella had been sitting. He picked up a little feather that had fallen from her boa and stuck it in his pocket just in time to miss being seen by the Neapolitan novelist, Raimondo Jacono, who was crossing the room to leave, snorting with disgust.

“Oh, it’s you? What are you doing? You look like a lost dog. . . . Do you hear the shouting? The hosannas! She’s the saint of the day! Fools, worse than her husband! Cheer up, my boy! It’s the easiest thing in the world, you see. . . . She took Medea and remade her into a ragamuffin from Taranto; take Ulysses and remake him into a Venetian gondolier. A triumph! Believe me! And see how rich you’ll get that way. My heavens! Two, three hundred thousand lire, like nothing! Dance, woman, dance while fortune plays!”

Returning home in the carriage with Signora Ely Faciolli (the poor thing couldn’t take her hankie from her eyes, but not so much now out of sadness for Silvia’s leaving as to hide the damage her long and desperate weeping had done to her makeup), Giustino Boggiolo shrugged, wrinkled his nose, fumed as though he might be angry with her. But no, poor Signora Ely, no. She had nothing to do with it.

Three minutes before the train left, Giustino was beset with a new problem. As if he didn’t have enough of them! Almost like a piece of paper, a rag, a clinging weed that sticks to the foot of a runner concentrating on the race in a crowded track. Senator Borghi, talking to Silvia through the train window, had asked her for nothing less than the script of
The New Colony
to publish in his review. Luckily he had been able to intervene in time to tell Borghi why that would not be possible. Already three of the best editors had made very lucrative offers and he was holding off all three, fearing that publication of the book might somewhat lessen the public’s curiosity in those cities waiting with feverish impatience to see the play. Then in its place, Borghi had made Silvia promise a story–a long one–for his literary review,
Vita Italiana
.

“Excuse me, on what conditions?” Giustino said, as if the senator-director and onetime minister were sitting beside him, and not that disconsolate Signora Ely, who really couldn’t expose her eyes or converse in the state she was in. “What conditions? We have to see, we have to come to an understanding, then.... The days of
House of the Dwarves
have passed. What was enough for a dwarf, my dear signora–let’s be
realistic–isn’t enough for a giant. Gratitude, yes! But gratitude . . . gratitude above all shouldn’t be exploited. What do you think?”

Signora Ely nodded approval several times behind her hankie, and Giustino went on: “In my hometown, anyone exploiting gratitude would not only lose everyone’s esteem, but would be seen the same as . . . no, what am I saying? worse! seen as worse than someone who cruelly refused to lend a helping hand. Look, I’ll keep that as a good thought for the first album the senator sends me. Rather, I’ll make a note of it. So he can read it. . . .”

He took out his notebook and jotted down the thought.

“Believe me, if I don’t write things down . . . Ah, my dear signora, my dear signora! I should have a hundred heads, a hundred, but that wouldn’t be enough! When I think of all I have to do, I get dizzy! Now I’m going to go to the office and ask for six months’ leave. I can’t ask for less. And if they don’t agree to it? You tell me…. If they don’t agree to it? It will be a serious business. I’ll be forced to . . . to . . . What did you say?”

Signora Ely said something into her hankie, something she didn’t want to repeat or indicate by gestures–she only twitched her shoulder slightly. And then Giustino said: “But, you see, against my will . . . You’ll see that they’ll force me to leave my job! And then they’ll begin saying–uh, I’m sure of it!–that I live off my wife. Me! Off my wife! As if my wife, without me … A laughing matter, that’s all there is to it! It’s obvious: look at her there, going on a holiday. And who stays here to work, to make war? It’s a war, you know? A real honest-to-goodness war . . . The battle has begun! Seven armies and a hundred cities! If I can just hold out. . . . And the office! If I lose my job tomorrow, whose fault will it be? I’ll lose it because of her…. Ah, well, better not to think about it!”

So many things were on his mind that only by venting his feelings for a few moments could he forget the strain he was under. Nevertheless, just before reaching his house he couldn’t help thinking about Senator Borghi’s asinine request. It had upset him so, particularly because the senator should have come to him instead of his wife. But,
then, for Christ’s sake! a little consideration! The poor little woman was going away to get well, to rest. If she wanted to think about something at Cargiore, it would be a new play, by heaven! Not some frivolous waste of time that earned nothing. A little consideration, for Christ’s sake!

As soon as they reached home–pow! another obstacle, another inconvenience, another reason to be annoyed. But this one rather more serious.

He found a lanky young fellow in the studio, with a forest of wild curly hair, a Van Dyke beard curving over his chin, mustache standing at attention, an old green silk kerchief at his neck that perhaps hid the lack of a shirt. A black jacket out at the elbows left his bony wrists exposed and made his arms and hands seem out of proportion. Boggiolo found him installed like the lord of the manor in the midst of an exhibition of twenty-five pastels placed around the room, on straight chairs, on armchairs, on the desk, everywhere: twenty-five pastels depicting final scenes of
The New Colony
.

“Well, pardon me . . . pardon me . . . pardon me . . .” Giustino Boggiolo began saying as he entered, flustered and ill at ease with all those things cluttering the room. “Pardon me, but who are you?”

“I?” said the young man smiling with a triumphant air. “Who am I? Nino Pirino. I am Nino Pirino, painterino, Tarentino. Therefore compatriotino of Silvia Roncella. You’re her husband, aren’t you? Pleased to meet you! I’ve done these things here and I’ve come to show them to Silvia Roncella, my illustrious compatriot.”

“And where is she?” ventured Giustino.

The young man looked at him, bewildered. “Where is who? What?”

“My dear sir, she is gone!”

“Gone?”

“For heaven’s sake, all Rome knows it! All Rome was at the station, and you don’t know! I don’t have much time, pardon me.. .. But, wait a minute…. Pardon me, these are scenes from
The New Colony
, if I’m not mistaken?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And
The New Colony
belongs to everyone? You take the scenes and . . . appropriate them to yourself. . . . How? With what right?”

“I? What are you saying? Not at all!” said the young man. “I am an artist! I have seen and . . .”

“No, sir!” exclaimed Giustino with feeling. “What have you seen? You have seen my wife’s
The New Colony
. . . .”

“Yes, sir.”

“And this is a deserted island, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you ever see it? Does this island exist in reality, on a map? You can’t have seen it!”

The young man actually believed the whole thing a joke, and he was ready to laugh about it. But as it was turning out to be so different from what he expected, the laugh congealed on his lips. More bewildered than ever, he said:

“With my own eyes? No, certainly not with my own eyes! I haven’t seen it. But I imagined it!”

“You? No, sir!” Giustino pressed ahead. “My wife! My wife imagined it, not you! And if my wife had not imagined it, I tell you, you wouldn’t have had a thing to paint! The ownership . . .”

At this point Nino Pirino succeeded in letting out the laughter that had been building up inside him for a while.

“The ownership? Oh, yes? Of that island? Oh, great! Oh, fine! Oh, wonderful! You want to be the sole owner of that island? The owner of an island that doesn’t exist?”

Giustino Boggiolo, feeling himself the butt of a joke, shook with anger and shouted: “Oh, it doesn’t exist? You say it doesn’t exist? It exists, it exists, it exists, yes, sir! I’ll show you it exists!”

“The island?”

“The ownership! My literary property rights! My rights, my rights exist. And you’ll see if I don’t know how to validate them! That’s why I’m here! Everyone is used to infringing on these rights that come from the sacrosanct law of the State, by heaven! But, I repeat, I’m here now, and I’ll show you!”

“All right . . . but, look . . . yes, sir . . . calm down, look . . .” the young
man said, distressed at seeing him so furious. “Look, I … I didn’t want to usurp any rights, any property. … If it makes you so mad . . . but I’m ready to leave all my pastels here and go away. I’ll give them to you and go away…. I had just wanted to please, to honor my fellow towns-woman. … Yes, I also wanted to ask her to … to .. . help me with the prestige of her name, because I believe I’m worth some help…. They’re beautiful, aren’t they? My pastels are worth a glance at least. . .. Not bad. I’ll give them to you and go away.”

Giustino Boggiolo suddenly felt disarmed and ashamed in the face of that ragamuffin’s generosity.

“No, not at all . . . thank you . . . excuse me … I was speaking of, I was arguing for the . . . her . . . my . . . rights, the ownership, that’s all. Believe me it’s serious business … as if it didn’t exist. … There’s constant piracy in the literary world…. I’m riled up, aren’t I? But because, look . . . these days I . . . I . . . I . . . get riled up easily. I’m dead tired of it all, and there’s nothing worse than being tired! I have to keep all sides covered, my dear sir. I have to protect my interests. You can understand that.”

“Certainly! Naturally!” exclaimed Nino Pirino, taking a conciliatory tone. “But, listen . . . Please don’t get mad again. Listen . . . do you think I can’t make a painting, let’s say, of Manzoni’s
The Betrothed?
I read
The Betrothed
, I get an idea for the scene . . . can’t I paint it?”

Giustino Boggiolo concentrated with great effort, smoothing his fan-shaped mustache with two fingers as he pondered: “Oh,” he finally said, “I really wouldn’t know. . . . Perhaps, dealing with the work of a dead author, already in the public domain for some time … I don’t know. I need to study the question. In any event, your case is different. Look! The fact remains that if tomorrow a musician asks my permission to put
The New Colony
to music, I’ll tell him that because I’m already negotiating with two of the best composers, and having the libretto done by others, he must pay me what I ask, and that’s not chicken feed, you know? Now, if I’m not mistaken, your case is the same. What applies to the musician for music applies to you for painting.”

“Really . . . I see. . . .” Nino Pirino began, stroking his goatee, but
then, suddenly, reconsidering: “Not at all! You’re wrong, you know! Look . . . that’s a different case! The musician has to pay because he uses the text for his opera, but if he doesn’t use it, if he expresses in music his impressions, his feelings aroused by your wife’s play, in a symphony or whatever, he won’t have to pay, don’t you see? You can be sure of that; he won’t have to pay anything!”

Giustino Boggiolo parried with his hands as though to ward off danger or a threat of it.

“I’m speaking academically,” the young man hastened to add. “I’ve already told you why I came, and, I repeat, I’ll be happy to leave my pastels here.”

That gave Giustino an idea. Sooner or later the play would be published. They could make an expensive, illustrated edition, with color reproductions of those twenty-five pastels. . . . The book wouldn’t go through many hands, so he could keep that painter from profiting from his wife’s work. And it would also take care of the painter’s request for moral and material help, because the publisher would compensate him adequately for those pastels.

Nino Pirino was enthusiastic about the idea and almost kissed the hands of his benefactor, who in the meanwhile had had another brain storm. He signaled for the young man to hold on while he brought it all out into the light.

“Here it is. A preface by Gueli . . . And so all the gossips that go around cackling that Gueli didn’t like the play . . . Do you know he came this morning to pay his respects to my wife at the station? But they can also say (I know them so well!) that he came out of mere courtesy. If Gueli writes the preface … Wonderful, yes, yes, wonderful. I’ll go there today just as soon as I leave the office. But see how many worries I have, and how much more you’ve given me to do now? I don’t have much time! I have to leave for Bologna tonight. Never mind. . . . I’ll take care of everything. Leave your pastels here. I promise that as soon as I go to Milan . . . What is your address?”

Nino Pirino squeezed his elbows into his waist and drew up his chest, ill at ease: “Well. . . when . . . will you be going to Milan?”

“I don’t know,” Boggiolo said. “In two or three months at the most.”

“Well, then,” smiled Pirino, “it’s pointless to give you my address. In three months I could have changed it at least eight times. Nino Pirino, General Delivery: that’s how you can write me.”