The Conformist (8 page)

Profiting from a moment when the geography professor had turned to indicate the map of Europe with his long pointer, he scribbled quickly in his notebook: “Today I’m getting a real pistol,” and then shoved the notebook toward Turchi. Now, Turchi, his ignorance notwithstanding, was a model student as far as behavior. Always attentive, motionless, almost gloomy in his blank and and dull solemnity, his inability to come up with answers to the teacher’s simplest questions, every time he was called on, astonished Marcello profoundly. He often wondered what in the world the boy was thinking about during lessons and why, if he didn’t study, he was pretending to be so diligent. Now, when
Turchi saw the notebook he made an impatient gesture, almost as if to say: “Leave me alone … don’t you see that I’m listening to the lesson?”

But Marcello insisted, nudging him with an elbow; and then Turchi, without moving his head, lowered his eyes to read the writing. Marcello saw him pick up a pencil and write in his turn: “I don’t believe you.”

Stung to the quick, he rushed to confirm it, in writing again: “Word of honor.”

Turchi wrote back suspiciously: “What make is it?”

This question disconcerted Marcello; still, after a moment of hesitation, he replied: “A Wilson.” He was mixing it up with Weston, a name he had heard dropped by Turchi himself some time ago.

Turchi wrote right away: “Never heard of it.”

Marcello concluded: “I’ll bring it to school tomorrow,” and the dialogue suddenly ended because the professor turned around and called on Turchi, asking him to name the longest river in Germany. As usual, Turchi stood up and, after long reflection, confessed without embarrassment — almost with a kind of sporting honesty — that he didn’t know. Right then the door opened and the janitor looked in to announce the end of lessons.

He must make sure at all costs that Lino kept his promise and gave him the pistol, thought Marcello later, hurrying through the streets toward the avenue of the plane trees. Marcello realized that Lino would give him the weapon only if he wanted to, and as he walked, he asked himself what attitude to take, what behavior to engage in to accomplish his purpose most surely. While he had not penetrated the true reason for Lino’s yearning, with an instinctive, almost feminine coquetry he intuited that the quickest way to enter into possession of the pistol was the one suggested last Saturday by Lino himself: to pay no attention to him, to scorn his offers, to reject his supplications, to make himself precious, that is; finally, not to agree to get in the car until he was good and sure the pistol was his. But why Lino should feel so strongly about him and why he should be able to get away with this kind of blackmail,
Marcello couldn’t have said. The same instinct that suggested he blackmail Lino allowed him to glimpse, behind his relationship with the chauffeur, the shadow of a strange affection, as embarrassing as it was mysterious. The pistol was foremost among his thoughts; but at the same time he could not have claimed that Lino’s affection and the almost feminine part that was his to play were truly disagreeable to him. The only thing he would like to avoid, he thought, bursting out onto the avenue of the plane trees, all sweaty from his long run, was Lino putting his arm around him as he had done in the hallway of the villa the first time they saw each other.

As on Saturday, the day was stormy and overcast, buffeted by a hot wind rich with spoil it had snatched up here, there, and everywhere in its turbulent passage: dead leaves, pieces of paper, feathers, down, twigs, dust. On the avenue the wind had just that moment swept down on a pile of dead leaves, lifting great numbers of them high, high among the stripped branches of the plane trees. He amused himself by watching the leaves as they whirled through the air against the background of dark sky, like innumerable yellow hands with their fingers spread apart; and then, looking down, he saw through all those hands of gold twirling in the wind, the long, black, shining shape of the automobile, parked against the curb. His heart began to beat more swiftly, he would not have known how to say why; however, faithful to his plan, he did not hurry his steps, but walked forward until he was level with the car. He passed its window slowly, and right away, as if at a signal, the car door opened and Lino, without his cap on, stuck his head out, saying, “Marcello, do you want to get in?”

He couldn’t help marveling at this very serious invitation after the vows of their first encounter. So Lino does know himself well, he thought, and it was even amusing to see him do something he had foreseen, despite all his determination to resist. Marcello walked on as if he hadn’t heard and then realized, with obscure satisfaction, that the car was moving and following him. The wide sidewalk was deserted as far as the eye could see between the regularly spaced factories full of windows and the great, slanting
trunks of the plane trees. The car was following him at his own pace, with a low rumble that almost caressed the ear; after about twenty meters, it passed him and stopped some distance ahead; then the car door opened again. He passed it without turning and heard once more the strained and urgent voice, pleading, “Marcello, get in … I beg you … forget what I told you the other day … Marcello, do you hear me?”

Marcello couldn’t help telling himself that that voice was a little disgusting; why did Lino have to whine that way? It was lucky that no one else was going down the avenue, otherwise he would have felt ashamed. All the same, he didn’t want to discourage the man completely, so this time as he passed the car, he turned round halfway to look behind him, as if to invite Lino to persevere. He realized he was launching an almost flattering, flirtatious glance in his direction, and all of a sudden he felt the same unmistakeable sensation of not unpleasant humiliation, of not unnatural pretence, that he had felt two days ago for a moment when his companions were tying the skirt around his waist. Almost as if, at heart, it wouldn’t displease him — on the contrary, maybe he was made for it by nature — to act the part of a disdainful, flirtatious woman. Meanwhile the car had come up behind him again. Marcello queried himself as to whether it was yet time to surrender and decided, after reflection, that the moment had not yet come. The car passed him without stopping, only slowing down. He heard the man’s voice calling to him: “Marcello.…” and then, right afterwards, the sudden roar of the car taking off. Now he worried that Lino had lost patience and left; he was invaded by a great fear of showing himself the next day at school with empty hands; and he started to run, shouting, “Lino! Lino, stop, Lino!”

But the wind carried his words away, scattering them through the air with the dead leaves in an anguished and resonant tumult. The car dwindled in the distance; evidently Lino had not heard him and was going away; and he wouldn’t have the pistol; and Turchi would tease him one more time. Then he breathed again and began to walk at an almost normal pace, reassured: the car had pulled ahead, not to escape him, but to await him at a cross
street; in fact, now it was parked there, blocking the whole width of the sidewalk.

He was assailed by anger with Lino for having provoked that humiliating thumping of his heart; and in that same heart he decided, with a sudden impulse of cruelty, to make him pay for it with calculated harshness. Meanwhile, without hurrying, he had reached the cross street. The car was there, long, black, gleaming with all its old brasses and antique body. Marcello started to go round it, and right away the door opened and Lino looked out.

“Marcello,” he said with desperate decision, “forget what I said to you Saturday.… You’ve gone beyond the call of duty … come on, get in, Marcello.”

Marcello had halted near the hood of the car. He took a step backwards and said coldly, without looking at the man, “I’m not coming. But not because you told me not to come on Saturday.… It’s just because I really don’t want to.”

“Why don’t you want to?”

“Why should I? Why should I get in the car?”

“To give me pleasure.…”

“But I don’t want to give you pleasure.”

“Why not? Do I disgust you?”

“Yes,” said Marcello, lowering his eyes and playing with the handle of the car door. He knew he was making a worried, hostile, reluctant face and he no longer understood whether he was playacting or doing it in earnest. It was certainly a play, this thing he was enacting with Lino; but if it was a play, why was he experiencing such a strong and complicated feeling, this mix of vanity, loathing, humiliation, cruelty, and spite?

He heard Lino laugh softly and affectionately and then ask: “Why do I disgust you?”

This time he raised his eyes and gazed in the man’s face. It was true, Lino did disgust him, he thought, but he had never asked himself why. He looked at his face, almost ascetic in its thin severity, and realized then why he didn’t like Lino: it was because, he thought, it was a double face, in which fraud had found an exact physical expression. It seemed to him, looking at it, that he
recognized this fraud above all in the mouth: thin, dry, disdainful, chaste at first sight; but then, if a smile opened and turned out the lips, shining, in the exposed and inflamed inner membranes, with the mysterious saliva of desire. He hesitated, gazing at Lino, who was smiling, waiting for his answer, and then he said sincerely, “You disgust me because you have a wet mouth.”

Lino’s smile vanished, his face darkened. “What foolishness are you inventing now?” he asked, and then, regaining control immediately, he said with joking nonchalance,” Well, Signor Marcello, do you want to get into the car?”

“I’ll get in,” said Marcello, making up his mind at last, “on one condition.”

“What condition?”

“That you really give me the pistol.”

“That’s understood … come on, get in.”

“No, you have to give it to me now, right away,” insisted Marcello obstinately.

“But I don’t have it here, Marcello,” the man said sincerely, “I left it in my bedroom on Saturday. Let’s go to the house now and get it.”

“Then I’m not coming,” Marcello said decisively, in a way that surprised even him. “Good-bye.”

He took a step forward as if to go, and this time Lino lost patience.

“Come on, don’t act like a child!” he exclaimed. Leaning out, he grabbed Marcello by one arm and dragged him onto the seat next to his own. “Now we’re going straight to the house,” he added, “and I promise you that you’ll have the pistol.”

Marcello, who was glad, actually, to be constrained by violence to enter the car, did not protest, but only assumed a childishly sulky expression. Lino, without wasting a motion, closed the door and turned on the engine, and the car set off.

For a long time neither of them spoke. Lino did not appear loquacious, perhaps, thought Marcello, because he was too happy to talk; for himself, he had nothing to say. Now Lino would give him the gun and then he would go back home and the next day he would take the pistol to school and show it to Turchi. His thoughts
did not extend beyond these simple and pleasurable expectations. His only fear was that Lino might want to cheat him in some way. In that case, he thought, he would invent something spiteful to drive Lino to desperation and force him to keep his promise.

Sitting still with his bundle of books on his knees, he watched the great plane trees and buildings slide by until they reached the end of the avenue. When the car started up the hill, Lino asked, as if concluding a long reflection, “Who taught you to be such a coquette, Marcello?”

Marcello, who was not quite sure what the word meant, hesitated before answering. The man seemed to understand his innocent ignorance and added, “I mean, so sly.”

“Why?” asked Marcello.

“Just to ask.”

“You’re the sly one,” said Marcello, “since you promise me the gun and never give it to me.”

Lino laughed; he slapped Marcello’s bare knee with one hand and said in an exultant voice, “You know, Marcello, how happy I am that you’ve come today … when I think that the other day I begged you to ignore me, not to come, I realize how foolish we can be sometimes … really foolish … but luckily you had more sense than me, Marcello.”

Marcello said nothing. He didn’t understand what Lino was saying too well and besides, that hand resting on his knee was annoying him. He had tried to move his knee away a few times, but the hand had stayed put. Luckily, at a bend in the road they saw a car coming toward them. Marcello pretended to be frightened and exclaimed: “Watch out, that car’s going to hit us,” and this time Lino withdrew his hand to turn the wheel. Marcello let out his breath.

Here was the country road, between the garden walls and the hedges; here was the gateway with the gate painted green; here was the driveway, flanked by the sparse little cypresses and, here, at the end, was the twinkle of the veranda windows. Marcello noticed that, just as it had last time, the wind was tormenting the cypress trees under a dark, stormy sky. The car came to a halt, Lino
leapt out and helped Marcello to descend, then set off with him toward the portico. This time Lino didn’t precede him but held him by the arm, hard, almost as if he were afraid he would try to escape. Marcello would have liked to tell him to loosen his grip but he didn’t have time. As if flying, holding him almost up off the ground by his arm, Lino made him cross the living room and then pushed him into the hallway. Here he unexpectedly grabbed him hard by the neck, saying, “Stupid boy that you are … stupid … why didn’t you want to come?”

His voice was no longer playful but harsh and broken, although mechanically tender. Marcello, stunned, started to raise his eyes to look into Lino’s face; but just then he was shoved violently backward. As one might hurl away a cat or a dog after grabbing it up by the collar, Lino had flung him into the bedroom. Then Marcello saw him turn the key in the lock, pocket it, and turn toward him with an expression in which joy was mixed with an angry triumph.

He shouted loudly, “That’s enough now! You’ll do what I want! That’s enough, Marcello, tyrant, little swine, enough … behave, obey, not another word from you.”

He uttered these words of command, disdain, and dominion with a savage joy, almost a voluptuous pleasure; and Marcello, as confused as he was, could not help but perceive that they were words without sense, more like the strophes of a triumphal song than the expressions of thought or of conscious will. Frightened, dumbfounded, he watched as Lino paced around the little room, taking long strides, ripping his cap off his head and flinging it onto the windowsill; balling up a shirt hung on one of the chairs and shoving it into a drawer; smoothing the rumpled bedcover; and performing all these practical actions with a fury full of obscure significance. Then he saw him, still yelling his incoherent declarations full of arrogance and power to the air, approach the wall above the bed, wrench free the crucifix, cross over to the wardrobe, and hurl it into the bottom of a drawer with ostentatious brutality; and he understood that in some way, by this gesture, Lino wanted to show him that he had set aside his last scruples. As
if to confirm him in this fear, Lino opened the drawer of the bedside table and took out the much-desired pistol; and showing it to Marcello, he screamed: “See it? Well, you’ll never get it! You’ll have to do what I want you to do without presents, without pistols … for love or by force.”