The Road To The City (13 page)

I would go home for the night, I thought, and to the police station in the morning. I didn't know where the police station was, so I'd have to look it up in the telephone book. I'd ask them to let me tell the whole story, from the very first day, including certain details which might seem trivial enough but had considerable importance. It was a long story, but they'd have to let me talk. I tried to imagine the face of the man who would listen to me, and I saw him, with a moustache and an olive complexion, sitting behind a desk. I shivered again and suddenly I wanted to phone Augusto and Francesca and ask them to go to the police station for me. Or else I might write a letter to the police and wait for them to come and pick me up at home. Of course they'd put me in jail, but I couldn't exactly imagine how that would be. All I could see was the police station and a man with a long, shiny, olive-skinned face behind a desk. When he laughed it made me shiver, and then everything was a blank, days and years tumbling out of my life that had no connection with the days and years that had been filled with the baby and Alberto and Augusto and Francesca and Gemma and the cat and my father and mother at Maona. It didn't matter at this point whether or not I went to jail. Everything that mattered had happened already, for everything that mattered was Alberto at the moment when I shot him and he fell heavily across the table and I closed my eyes and ran out of the room.

Our little girl was born three years ago on January eleventh at three o'clock in the afternoon. I trailed around the house in a wrapper, moaning with pain, for two whole days while Alberto followed me with a frightened look on his face. Dr. Gaudenzi came to take care of me, bringing a young and obnoxious nurse who called Alberto ‘Daddy.' The nurse had a fight with Gemma in the kitchen because she said the kettles were dirty. They needed lots of hot water, and Gemma was terrified by my moans and groans, besides having a stye in her eye that made her particularly unintelligent. My father and mother came too. I wandered about the house making senseless remarks to the effect that they must hurry up and help me to get rid of that infernal baby. Then I was so dead tired I went to bed and fell asleep for a minute, only to wake up shrieking with pain until the nurse told me I'd get a goitre from straining my throat that way. I had forgotten the baby and Alberto, and all I wanted was to go to sleep and stop suffering. I no longer wanted to die; in fact, I was scared to pieces of dying and asked nothing more than to live. I begged everyone to tell me when the pain would be over, but it lasted a very long time, while the nurse went to and fro with kettles of water, my mother huddled in her black dress in a corner, and Alberto held my hand. But I didn't want his hand; I only bit the sheet and tried, regardless of the baby, to get rid of that terrible pain in my middle.

Then the baby was born and suddenly all my pain was gone. I raised my head to look at her as she lay there naked and red between my legs, and Alberto leaned over me with relief and joy on his face while I felt happier than I had ever felt in my life, with the pain gone from my body, leaving me with a sense of glory and peace.

My mother put the baby in bed beside me, wrapped in a white shawl with her two cold, red fists and her damp, bald little head sticking out. I saw Gemma's face leaning over with a glorious smile, and my mother's face had a glorious smile on it, too, while the baby's feeble whimpering in the shawl filled me with joy.

Everyone said I ought to sleep, but now I didn't want to. I talked incessantly and asked how the baby looked and what kind of a nose and mouth and forehead she had. They closed the shutters and took the baby away, leaving Alberto alone with me, and we laughed together over the stye in Gemma's eye and the nurse's way of calling him ‘Daddy.' Alberto asked me if I still wanted to die, and I told him that was the last thing I wanted to do, but I did want a glass of orange juice because I was thirsty. He went to get the juice and brought it to me on a tray, holding up my head while I drank it and planting a gentle kiss on my hair.

The baby was very ugly at first, and Alberto called her the ‘little toad.' Every time he came back from outside the first thing he asked was: ‘What's the little toad up to?' Then he stood with his hands in his pockets, looking down into her cradle. He even bought a camera to take pictures of her as soon as she was slightly better to look at.

My father and mother went away after a few days, and when my mother asked me at the last minute whether I was happy I told her I most certainly was. She sent me a big box of woollens for the baby and a pair of socks she had knitted for Alberto, while my father sent a case of wine. It made them happy to think that all was going well with me, and my mother wrote to me that because Alberto was thin and had no appetite I should see to it that he didn't overwork and that the baby didn't disturb his sleep.

Probably my mother thought that we would sleep together again now that the baby was born, but he went right on sleeping in the study, as he had ever since coming back from his last trip, and I kept the baby's crib near my bed. But I couldn't sleep very well because I got up frequently to see how the baby was sleeping and whether she was hot or cold and to listen to her regular breathing. After the first few months she became very bad and woke up crying all the time, until I picked her up and rocked her in my arms. I was afraid that Alberto would hear her, so I picked her up in a hurry and walked up and down the room, singing to her in a low voice. That way she got worse and worse. She liked to have me rock her and would apparently fall asleep in my arms with her eyes shut and her breathing even, but just as soon as I put her down in the crib she started crying again. As a result I was sleepy all day long.

I didn't have much milk to give her, so I stuffed myself with food until I was quite fat. But the baby stayed thin, and when I took her out in her carriage I used to look at the other babies and ask how old they were and how much they weighed and feel ashamed because mine wasn't as fat and strong as the rest. I hastened to weigh her immediately after every time I gave her the breast and every Saturday, without her clothes on, just before her bath. I kept a notebook, where I wrote down in red ink her weekly weight and in green her increase of weight after every feeding. Saturdays I got up with a pounding heart, hoping that she would be a little heavier than the week before, but often she wasn't and I was plunged into despair. Alberto got angry with me about this and said that he had been a thin baby himself. He teased me about the notebook and about the way my hands trembled when I was dressing or undressing the baby, the way I upset the talcum powder and rushed breathlessly around the howling baby. He made a sketch of me with my mouth full of safety-pins and a breathless, frightened air about me, letting the belt of my open wrapper drag on the floor, and wearing my hair in a net because I didn't feel like combing it.

I didn't let Gemma touch the baby, in fact, I was distressed whenever she went over to whisper sweet nothings in her ear and to shake her rattle with damp, red hands. I didn't even like to see Augusto come into the room because I was afraid he might bring in some germs from outside. Augusto lived with a sister who had a small child, and I feared he might be the carrier of whooping cough or measles. Moreover, I was ashamed to have Augusto tell me that his sister's child was fat and strong.

When the baby was two or three months old Alberto began to take pictures of her: in her bath, on the table, bareheaded, and with her cap on. For a while this gave him great amusement and he bought a better camera and an album with a flowered cover where he pasted in the pictures with the dates when they were taken and a phrase of comment in red ink below. But this amusement soon palled, because he was a man who tired quickly of everything. One day he said he was going to visit some friends who had a villa on one of the lakes, and I saw him pack the volume of Rilke in his bag. He locked the study door, as he never forgot to do, and after he had gone I looked at the photograph album on the drawing-room table, which had remained only half filled after he lost his interest in photography. It depressed me to see the empty black pages, with the last picture of the baby holding her rattle, and written in red ink underneath it: ‘We begin to play.'

There was only one thing in life that Alberto didn't tire of, I reflected, and that was his passion for Giovanna. Because I was sure he had gone with her to the lake and they were sitting on a bench beside the water reading Rilke together. He had long ago given up reading Rilke with me in the evening and taken to reading a book or newspaper to himself, picking his teeth or scratching his head at intervals and never saying a word about what he was thinking. I wondered if this might be my fault, although I had always listened attentively and told him I liked Rilke's poems, even when they bored me. How had Giovanna managed to hold his interest for all these years? Perhaps she never showed that she loved him, but tormented and deceived him so that he had not a moment of peace and could not possibly forget her. I went over to the cradle and felt sorry for the baby because I was the only one who really loved her. I picked her up and unbuttoned my dress, and while I was nursing her I thought that when a woman has her baby in her arms nothing else should matter.

I began to wean the baby when she was six months old and tried to feed her a thin porridge to which she did not take at all. Dr. Gaudenzi was very kind about coming to see her, but occasionally he lost his patience and said that I took things too hard and couldn't seem to relax. There he was quite right. Every time the baby had a touch of fever I went into a panic and didn't know what I was doing. I took her temperature every five minutes, looked up in a book all the diseases that she could possibly have, stopped eating my meals and combing my hair and couldn't sleep at night. At times like these my temper was constantly on edge and I would shout at Gemma as if everything were her fault. Then, when the baby's fever went down, I returned to reason, felt sorry for the way I had treated her, and gave her a handsome present. For a while afterward I didn't particularly want to see the baby. I almost loathed everything connected with her: the rattle, the talcum powder, the diapers, and all the rest, and only wished I could read a novel or go to the theatre with friends. But I hadn't any friends, and when I opened a book it bored me and I went back to reading about infants' diseases and diet.

One evening while I was cooking the porridge Francesca turned up at the house. She was hatless and had no make-up on her face, while a lock of hair tumbling over her forehead and the raincoat thrown over her black dress gave her a gloomy and defiant air. She told me she had quarrelled with her mother and asked me if I could put her up for the night. I told Gemma to make up the couch in the drawing-room. Francesca sat down, puffed at a cigarette, and watched me give the baby her porridge, which the baby spat out as soon as I got it in her mouth.

‘I couldn't stand a baby,' said Francesca. ‘If ever I had a baby I'd kill myself, for sure.'

Alberto was in his study and I went to tell him that it was Francesca and that she had come to stay with us because there was something wrong at home.

‘Good,' he said. He was reading a German book on Charles V and writing notes in the margin.

I put the baby to bed. Francesca was stretched out on the drawing-room couch, smoking another cigarette and looking as if the place had always been hers. She had taken off her garters and hung them over the back of an armchair, and she flicked the ashes from her cigarette on to the rug.

‘Did you know he was unfaithful to you?' she asked.

‘Yes, I know that.'

‘Don't you care?'

‘No.'

‘Why don't you leave him?' she asked. ‘Let's go for a trip somewhere. He's a little rat of a man. What good is he to you?'

‘I love him,' I said, ‘and then there's the baby.'

‘But he's deceiving you. He does it in the most blatant sort of way. I see them together sometimes. She has a behind like a cauliflower. Nothing much to look at.'

'Her name is Giovanna,' I said.

'Leave him, I say. What good is he to you?'

'So you've seen her, have you? What's she like?'

‘Well … She doesn't know how to dress. They walk along very slowly. I see them all the time.'

‘Why did you say she has a behind like a cauliflower?'

‘Because that's what it's like, that's all. It's round, I mean, and she shakes it when she walks. But what do you care?'

Francesca took all her clothes off and walked up and down the room. I locked the door.

‘Are you afraid that rat will see me?' she said. ‘Lend me a nightgown, will you?' I brought her a nightgown and she put it on. ‘I rattle around in it,' she said. ‘You've got fat.'

‘I'll lose weight now that the baby's weaned.'

‘I don't want any children,' she said. ‘I don't want to get married. Do you know why I fell out with my mother? Because there was a man they wanted me to marry. He works for a shipping company. They've been trying for ages to marry me off. But I've had enough. I'm not going home. I'll take a room somewhere and look for a job. I've had enough of family. I don't want to be tied to a husband, either. Just to get myself let down the way you are? Not me! I like going to bed with a man. But I'm all for variety. A couple of times with one man is enough for me.'

I listened to her with astonishment.

‘You've had lovers, then?' I asked.

'Of course I have,' she said, laughing. ‘Are you shocked?'

‘No,' I said, ‘but I don't understand how you can do it.'

‘Do what?'

‘Change all the time.'

‘You don't understand?'

‘No.'

'Oh, I've had a lot of men,' she said. ‘First, one in Rome, when I was trying to get on the stage. I broke that off when he asked me to marry him. I was tired of him, anyhow; quite ready to throw him out of the window. But I still took such things seriously. “What kind of a girl am I?” I said to myself “I must be a bitch if I like to change so often.” Words have a way of scaring us when we're young. I still thought I ought to marry and be like everyone else. Then little by little I learned to make life less of a tragedy. We have to accept ourselves for what we are.'