The Woman of Rome (Italia)

by Alberto Moravia

  Finally I said the first thing that came into my mind: “Why did you do it?”

  His lips hardly moved as he answered me. “I had something valuable to sell.… I knew he was a swine, but he was the only dealer I knew.… He offered me a ridiculous price — I already hated him because he had tried to swindle me before this.… I told him I wanted the object back and also told him he was a cheat.… He said something to me that made me lose my patience.”

  “What did he say?” I asked. I now noticed with astonishment that as Sonzogno told me the story my fear began to diminish and despite myself a feeling of complicity thrilled me. In asking him what the jeweler had said, I realized I was hoping it had been something so outrageous that the crime was excusable, if not completely justifiable.

  “He said he would turn me over to the police if I didn’t go, so I thought: I’ve had enough — and when he turned away —” He did not finish the sentence but stared at me.

  “What was he like?” I asked, and at the time my curiosity seemed purposeless and idle.

  “Bald — rather short — a sly face like a hare’s —” he answered precisely. But he spoke with an expression of unemotional dislike that brought the man before me and made me hate him, too — this receiver of stolen goods, with a face like a hare’s, who had been deceitful and suspicious as he reckoned up the worth of the object Sonzogno had brought him. I was no longer afraid of anything. Sonzogno seemed to have transferred to me his hatred of his victim and I was not even sure that I condemned him. I actually seemed to understand what had happened so well that I felt I, too, might have been capable of the same crime. How well I understood his phrase: “He said something to me that made me lose my patience!” He had already lost patience with Gino once and then again with me, and it was only by a lucky chance that Gino and I were still alive. I understood him so well, I had penetrated into him so thoroughly, that not only did I no longer fear him, but I even felt a kind of horrified attraction for him — the very attraction I had been unable to feel so long as I knew nothing of the crime and considered him as just one of my many lovers.

  “Aren’t you sorry?” I asked. “Don’t you regret it?”

  “It’s done now,” he replied.

  I looked at him intently and was surprised to find myself nodding my head in approval at his reply. Then I remembered that Gino, too, in Sonzogno’s words, was a swine, and yet he was also a man and had loved me and I had loved him. I thought that if I reasoned in this way, I might even find myself approving of Gino’s murder in the near future. After all, the jeweler was no better and no worse than Gino, the only difference being that I did not know him, and I found his murder justifiable merely because I had heard someone say in a certain tone of voice that he had a face like a hare’s. Remorse and horror filled me — not for Sonzogno, who was made that way and had to be understood before he was judged, but for myself, who was not like Sonzogno, but nevertheless had let myself be infected by the contagion of hatred and blood. Overcome by agitation, I sprang up on the bed. “Oh, my God!” I repeated, “My God! Why did you do it? And why did you tell me about it?”

  “You were so frightened of me,” he answered simply, “yet you didn’t know anything. I thought that was strange, so I told you. Luckily,” he added, amused by his own idea, “luckily the rest aren’t all like you, otherwise, I’d have been caught by now.”

  “You’d better go and leave me alone,” I said. “Go on.”

  “What’s the matter with you now?” he asked.

  I could tell from his tone that he was growing angry. But I thought I could also discern a kind of pain at finding himself alone, condemned even by me, when only a moment before I had given myself to him.

  “Don’t think I’m afraid of you,” I added hastily. “I’m not afraid at all. But I’ve got to get used to the idea. I’ve got to think it over. Then you can come back and you’ll find me changed.”

  “What is there to think over?” he said. “You aren’t going to turn me in to the police, are you?”

  These words gave me exactly the same sensation I had had when Gino told me of his treachery toward the maid: as if we were living in different worlds. I made an effort to control myself. “But I’m telling you, you can come back!” I said. “Do you know what any other woman would have said? She’d have said she didn’t want to have anything more to do with you, or ever see you again.”

  “But meanwhile you’re telling me to get out.”

  “I thought you wanted to go.… One minute more or less.… But if you want to stay, stay. Do you want to sleep here? If you like you can sleep with me and go away tomorrow morning. Is that what you want?” It is true that I made these suggestions in a dull, sad, puzzled voice, and there must have been a lost look in my eyes. Nevertheless, I made them and I felt I was glad to do so. Perhaps I was mistaken, but I thought I saw a gleam of gratitude in the look he gave me.

  “No, I was just talking,” he said as he shook his head. “I’ve got to go.” He stood up and went over to the chair where he had left his clothes.

  “As you like,” I replied, “but if you want to stay, you know you can. And if you need somewhere to sleep one of these nights,” I added with an effort, “you can come here.”

  He said nothing, he was dressing. I got up, too, and put on a dressing gown. I felt crazy as I walked about, as if the room were full of voices whispering mad, impassioned words in my ear. Perhaps it was this sensation of being crazed that made me do what I did then. While I was wandering about the room, moving slowly, although I felt frenzied, I saw him bend down to tie his shoelaces. I immediately knelt down in front of him. “Let me do it,”-I said. He seemed amazed but did not protest. I took his right foot, rested it on my lap and tied his shoe with a double knot. Then I did the same with his left foot. He did not thank me and said nothing; probably neither of us understood why I had done such a thing. He slipped on his jacket. Then he took out his wallet and started to hand me some money.

  “No, no,” I said with an involuntary catch of the voice, “don’t give me anything — it doesn’t matter.”

  “Why? Isn’t my money as good as another man’s?” he asked in a voice already altered by anger. I thought it was strange that he did not understand my instinctive disgust for that money, probably taken from the still warm pockets of the dead man. Or perhaps he did understand it, but wanted to compromise me by making me a kind of accomplice, and at the same time wanted to discover what my feelings for him really were.

  “No,” I said, “it’s not that. But I wasn’t thinking about money when I called out to you. It doesn’t matter.”

  He was pacified. “All right,” he said, “but I’d like to leave you a souvenir.” He pulled something out of his pocket and put it on the marble top of the night table.

  I looked at it without picking it up and saw it was the compact I had stolen some months earlier from Gino’s employer. “What is it?” I stammered.

  “Gino gave it to me, it’s the thing I had to sell.… He wanted to get it for nothing, but I think it’s quite valuable, really, it’s gold —”

  “Thanks,” I said, controlling myself.

  “Not at all,” he replied. He put on his raincoat and fastened the belt. “So long, then,” he said from the doorway. Shortly afterward I heard the front door close.

  When I was alone, I walked over to the night table and picked up the compact. I felt bewildered and at the same time darkly amazed. The compact glittered in my hand and the ruby set in the catch suddenly seemed to grow, to become a round, red drop that spread until it covered the gold. In the palm of my hand lay a round, glowing, bloody stain that weighed as much as the compact itself. I shook my head and the red stain disappeared, and once more all I saw was the gold compact with the ruby clasp. Then I placed the compact on the night table once more, lay on the bed wrapped in my dressing gown, switched off the light, and began to consider.

  I supposed that if anyone had told me the tale of the compact I would have been as highl
y entertained as if I were being told of some almost incredible chain of circumstances. It was one of those tales that provoke the exclamation, “What a coincidence!” Women like Mother would work out lottery numbers based on it — this number standing for the dead man, another for the gold, another for the thief. But this time it had happened to me, and to my astonishment I became aware of the difference between being on the inside of an event and being only an outsider. In fact, the way it had happened to me, it was as if someone had planted a seed and then forgotten it — on rediscovering it, he finds it has grown into a flourishing plant, covered with leaves and buds ready to burst into flower. Only — what a seed, what a plant, what buds.

  I let my mind wander backward from one thing to another, but I could not find the starting point. I had given myself to Gino because I hoped he would marry me, but he had betrayed me and out of pique I had stolen the compact. When I had told him of the theft, he had become frightened, and, to prevent his being dismissed, I had returned the compact to him so that he could restore it to its owner. But instead of returning it, he had kept it, and, being afraid of being accused of the theft, he had inculpated the maid who had been sent to prison. The maid was innocent and in prison they beat her. Meanwhile Gino had given the compact to Sonzogno to sell; Sonzogno had gone to the jeweler; the jeweler had offended Sonzogno; Sonzogno in a fit of rage had killed him; the jeweler was dead and Sonzogno was a murderer. I realized I could not trace the blame back to myself; otherwise I would have had to come to the conclusion that my desire to get married and have a family was the prime cause of this chain of misfortunes. All the same I could not rid myself of a feeling of remorse and consternation. At last I was driven to conclude after much thinking that the whole fault was due to my legs, my hips, my breasts, all that beauty of which my mother was so proud, a quality in itself entirely innocent, like everything else given us by nature. But such thoughts were caused by my irritation and despair, as we allow one absurd thought to drive out others a hundred times as absurd. I knew in my heart that no one was really to blame and everything was as it had to be, although it was all intolerable, and if guilt and innocence really must be attributed, then each individual was equally guilty and equally innocent.

  Meanwhile darkness gradually invaded me, like floodwater rising from the ground floor to the upper stories of a house. My faculty of judgment was the first to be submerged. But my imagination, on the other hand, dallied until the last with the fascination of Sonzogno’s crime. The crime, however, was detached from any association of reproach or horror, like an event both inexplicable and, in its way, strangely delicious. I imagined Sonzogno walking along Via Palestro, his hands in his raincoat pockets, then entering the house, standing in the jeweler’s parlor awaiting him. I seemed to see the jeweler come in and shake Sonzogno’s hand. He was behind his desk, Sonzogno held out the compact, the jeweler examined it and shook his head, feigning scorn for the object. Then he raised his harelike face and made a ridiculous offer. Sonzogno looked at him fixedly, his eyes full of rage, and jerked the compact violently out of his hand. He then accused the jeweler of wanting to cheat him. The jeweler retaliated by threatening to denounce him to the police and warned him to get out. Then, as if to put an end to the discussion, he turned away or bent his head. Sonzogno picked up the bronze paperweight and hit him once on the head. The jeweler tried to escape and then Sonzogno leaped on him and struck him repeatedly until he was quite sure he was dead. Then Sonzogno pushed him down onto the floor, searched the drawers, took what money he could find, and made his escape. But before leaving, as I had read in the papers, he ground the dead man in the face with the heel of his shoe in a renewal of rage.

  I lingered in fascination over all the details of the crime. I followed Sonzogno, caressing his gestures almost lovingly. I was the hand that held out the compact, picked up the paperweight, and struck the jeweler. I was the foot that crushed the dead man’s face in fury when it was all over. There was no horror or blame in my fancied visions, but neither was there any approval. If anything, I experienced the same sensation of strange delight we feel when we are children listening to the tales our mothers tell; it is warm, huddled up near our mother, and we follow with rapt attention the adventures of those legendary heroes. Only my tale was grim and bloody, its hero was Sonzogno and a helpless and astonished sorrow mingled with my delight. Seeking to discover the hidden significance of the tale, I began to run through it again, to recapitulate all the stages of the crime. I experienced once more that same obscure pleasure and was faced again with the mystery. And then, like someone falling headlong into the gap between two precipices through a miscalculation of the distance, I fell asleep between two episodes in my mental wanderings.

  I slept for about a couple of hours and then awoke. Or rather, I began to wake up physically, while mentally I was still in a state of stupor. My hands were the first to wake; I stretched them out before me like a blind man in the dark, without knowing where I was. I had fallen asleep lying at full-length on my bed; now I found myself standing upright in a narrow space between smooth, vertical, unbroken walls. It immediately suggested the idea of a prison cell to me, and at the same time I remembered the maid Gino had had arrested. I was the maid, and in my heart I felt all the anguish she was suffering for the injustice done to her. From this pain came the physical sensation that I was no longer myself, but the maid; and her sorrow altered me, imprisoned me in her body, gave me her face, forced her gestures upon me. I put my hands to my face and wept, and imagined myself wrongly imprisoned in a cell from which I could never escape. But at the same time I knew I was Adriana, who had suffered no injustice, who had never been imprisoned, and I knew that one single gesture would free me and I would no longer be the maid. But I could not imagine what this gesture might be — although I suffered indescribably through my desire to escape from my prison of pity and anguish. Suddenly Astarita’s name flashed through my mind, shot through by the same spasmodic light and shade that dazzle the eyes of someone who has received a violent blow. I’ll go and see Astarita and get her freed, I thought; I stretched out my hands once more and discovered a narrow slit in the vertical walls of my cell — I could escape. I took a few steps in the dark, felt the switch under my fingers, turned it on with hysterical speed. The room leaped into light. I was standing near the door, naked, panting, my face and body dripping with cold sweat. The cell I had been imprisoned in was only the angle between the closet, the corner of the room, and the chest of drawers — a narrow space closed almost entirely by the walls and furniture. In my sleep I must have got up, walked forward, and forced myself into it.

  I switched the light off once more, and, counting my steps, went back to bed. Before falling asleep, the thought came to me that although I certainly could not bring the jeweler back to life, I could save, or try to save, the maid, and this was the only thing that mattered. It was all the more my duty now that I had discovered I was not as good as I had always believed myself to be. Or at least my goodness did not exclude a taste for blood, admiration of violence, and delight in crime.

  4

  T HE FOLLOWING MORNING I dressed carefully, put the compact into my purse, and went out to telephone Astarita. I felt strangely lighthearted; the anguish Sonzogno’s revelations had caused me the evening before had entirely vanished. I have many times in my life since noticed that vanity is the worst enemy of charity and moral reproof. What I now felt, instead of fear and horror, was a kind of vanity at the thought that I was the only one in town who knew how the crime had been committed and who had done it. I said to myself, “I know who killed the jeweler” and seemed to look at people and things with different eyes from the day before. I imagined there must even be some change in my features, and I was almost afraid that Sonzogno’s secret could be read in the expression of my face. At the same time, I felt a mild, pleasant, irresistible longing to tell someone what I knew. The secret overflowed from my heart like too much water from a small vessel, and I was tempted to pour it out
to someone else. I suppose this is the chief reason why so many criminals tell their sweethearts or wives about the crimes they have committed; then the women tell it to their best friend and the best friend tells someone else, until it reaches the ears of the police and brings about the ruin of all of them. But I think, too, that in speaking of their crimes the criminals are trying to free themselves of an intolerable burden by making others share it. Just as if guilt were something that could be parceled out and borne by many until it becomes slight and unimportant, and not, as it really is, a load that cannot be transferred, whose weight is never lessened by being shared by others, but on the contrary increases with the number of those who bear it.

  As I walked through the streets in search of a public telephone, I bought a couple of newspapers and looked for further details of the crime in Via Palestro. But some days had already passed; I could only find a few disappointing lines under the subhead NO CLUES IN JEWELER’S DEATH. I realized that unless he made some clumsy mistake, Sonzogno would never be discovered. The illegal character of the victim’s business made police inquiries extremely difficult. As the papers said, the jeweler had secret and inadmissible contacts with people of all classes and conditions; the murderer might have been someone he had never seen before, who had killed him on an impulse. This explanation was nearest to the truth. But for the very reason that this was perfectly true, the police had obviously given up any hope of discovering the murderer.