Scent of a Woman

by Giovanni Arpino

  It seemed miraculously blessed not to know.

  I went out into the corridor; the dark glass reflected me as a vague silhouette of uncertain contour. Leaning at the window I tried to peer into the night, a black void that for a split second suddenly fractured into shadowy walls, poles, signs, deserted gates slashed by vivid lights, and was then quickly restored.

  In the reflection of the glass, my forehead pressed against the pane, I saw my eyelid, shiny and dark, the grain of the skin enlarged, the eye’s moisture quick to reappear after each blink.

  And I remembered him in bed at the hotel, without his dark glasses, the gaunt, livid, turbulent splotch of his face against the pillow.

  I had eaten. I had convinced myself not to wear my uniform. The new suit continued to console me, and now the surprise of that earlier, furtive laughter made me feel good.

  I thought about something nice to say to him, later on or the next day in Rome. Maybe a special kindness would make things easier for both him and me. I couldn’t think of any particular words or gesture, but that vague determination was enough to cheer me up.

  Kindness, yes, or even some humour: that’s what I should stick to, to make our trip a pleasant one.

  There were few passengers on the train, just two or three in each compartment and almost all of them asleep. A solitary woman at the back, an elderly lady with an open book. The smell of old dust, of newly oiled door handles and other hardware was not unpleasant. We would stop twice more before Rome, arriving there in the early morning.

  I avoided looking at my watch, content at feeling suspended within the protective shell of the journey, by the idea of the city to come, in that silence that freed you of any obligation. I promised myself I would write at least two postcards home from Rome.

  Turning, I looked at him again, motionless in his corner, his right hand closed around the glove on his left, his chin nodding in submission to the train’s rocking. Everything seemed right, elevated to a higher order.

  He awoke at a more abrupt jolt, his hand immediately searching for his cigarettes.

  ‘Hey there, Ciccio. Still hanging in there?’ He yawned.

  ‘You didn’t sleep much.’

  ‘I made a mistake: vitamins, not sleeping pills, damn. I must have had too much to drink.’

  ‘I’ll say.’ I laughed.

  He laughed too, swallowing to get rid of the bitter taste of sleep in his mouth.

  ‘What about you? Get any sleep?’

  ‘No. But I’m fine. I even ate. There are just a few people. It’s quiet.’

  ‘Almost too quiet,’ he agreed.

  ‘Are we staying long in Rome? Nearly two days have already flown by,’ I asked.

  He sighed. ‘Who knows? I have a cousin who’s a priest. He writes to me all the time. I should drop in. Have we passed Pisa?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  He made another face to cleanse his tongue and palate.

  ‘A mint. That’s what I need. Since I don’t have one …’ he said taking the flask out of his pocket. Then, but politely this time: ‘You take a sip first.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Intersecting beams of light cut through the thick darkness. Perhaps we were nearing Pisa. A train passed us sending back vivid blasts of colour.

  ‘Once I had a girl with enormous breasts. Like pumpkins.’ He muttered, pretending to be sullen. ‘While we slept, she would turn around and routinely give me a K.O. with one of those things of hers. What a life, can you imagine?’

  We started laughing. He drank again, held the bottle out to me, and when I handed it back he did not put it in his pocket.

  ‘And a colonel of mine? His own words, I swear: during the war, in Africa or Russia, I don’t remember, as a lowly lieutenant heavily in debt because of poker, he always volunteered for the most foolish missions. For each mission there was an award. Cash: ready for him to get his hands on immediately, if he came back alive. He was scared to death, but without poker he would have dropped dead even sooner. And so he managed to get two silver medals and a promotion besides.’

  The train slowed up as it neared Pisa. The night shattered into slivers of light that eventually began to glide alongside us more closely and systematically. Amid the gloom of a valley, a large reddish smoke plume from a foundry or cement works made the ridges of the hills appear harsh.

  ‘Yeah. That’s how life should be.’ He sighed, relaxing reluctantly, a tremor on his lips.

  The gentleman who got on at Pisa had a new suitcase. He was tall, elderly, with white hair. He sat down and gave us a polite smile before leafing through the newspaper.

  ‘We have a visitor, Ciccio,’ he said.

  The gentleman looked up, gave a broader smile over his newspaper.

  ‘I noticed the compartment was nearly empty,’ he said mildly. ‘But if I’m disturbing you …’

  ‘Heavens, no!’ He laughed. ‘Make yourself comfortable. Want to have a drink with us?’

  ‘Pardon?’ the other man murmured.

  He held out the flask.

  ‘I said: do you want to have a drink with us? Are we or are we not in Tuscany?’ he tossed back in an even tone.

  ‘Well, ah, really …’ the man said, quickly summing us up. ‘Look, I think you’ve more or less emptied your bottle. Thank you. I wouldn’t want to …’

  ‘Impose? Please do,’ he said leaving him no way out. ‘There’s a reserve in the suitcase. Oral ammo. Twelve-year-old labels only.’

  The man thanked him again, took the flask, held it in his hand a moment, warily winked at me as a sign of understanding, then handed it back with a thank-you.

  ‘Truly excellent,’ he added.

  He took a sip.

  ‘Well. A cheat,’ he then pronounced.

  ‘What’s that, sir?’ I said.

  ‘We have a cheat at our side. Yeah. Maybe he thinks he can put one over on us. Watch out, Ciccio.’ He laughed sadly.

  The man gave a slight start but did not respond. He went back to his newspaper.

  ‘Don’t let him get away, Ciccio. Otherwise, with the excuse that we’re drunk, Mr Cheater will run off.’

  ‘All right, sir.’

  The man refolded his paper, doubtful and troubled, then tried tapping a finger against his temple, his eyes questioning. I shook my head no.

  I had to accept the flask again and drain the last drops.

  The gentleman had just started to stand up when he grabbed him with his right hand forcing him to remain seated.

  ‘Please. My dear sir,’ – he laughed – ‘you wouldn’t want to deny this human piece of wreckage here a little conversation, now would you? You, Ciccio, stand at the door. That’s a good boy.’

  I slid the glass door of the compartment shut and leaned against it. I was just a little foggy, but with a kind of urgency in my body, itching for a brawl, some words, some action.

  The seated man was prepared to be tolerant. His butter-soft face focused.

  ‘Were you in the war?’ came the question.

  ‘Of course. Ethiopia and later …’

  ‘Not me. Just peacetime for me.’ He laughed, abruptly raising his gloved left hand up to his face.

  There were beads of perspiration on his lip.

  ‘Forgive me,’ the man began, ‘I greatly respect your condition. I wouldn’t want …’

  ‘My condition? What condition? Do I have a condition, Ciccio?’ he interrupted the man.

  ‘What I mean is, I understand. Believe me. I’m old enough to have seen the world and to realize that …’

  ‘An Italian old enough. Who knows what a filthy swine he secretly was. Right? Without hesitation. Presto!’ He laughed.

  But the laughter immediately froze on his lips as he drew them into a pitiful grimace.

  The man again sought support by looking over at me. I shrugged and gave him a wicked grin. Every move I made surprised me with its promptness and arrogance. The smell of whisky tickled my nostrils.

  ‘Listen, sir,’ the other man
went on, ‘I don’t know you and I’m sorry. If you will allow me …’

  ‘You’re not allowed.’

  ‘I only wanted to introduce myself,’ the man responded meekly.

  ‘And I have no intention of knowing your useless name. Too bad for you if you say it. Be anonymous. It suits you!’ he shouted.

  With some difficulty the man recovered a ghost of a smile and tried to change the subject. ‘Excellent. Well, let’s just say: I feel like I’m in a real night-time adventure. A little something unexpected doesn’t hurt.’

  ‘Ciccio, the gentleman is asking for something unexpected,’ he said. Then: ‘You, Anonymous, have you met Ciccio? Known as the terror of the two seas.’

  He moved closer until he was just a few inches from that pale face. The man straightened up and backed away at least a little.

  ‘I’m drunk, your Excellency.’

  ‘That’s fine. Quite all right,’ the gentleman rallied. ‘Every so often it’s just what’s needed. A release. I always say …’

  ‘Not a thing. You don’t say. You can’t say.’

  The man leaned back against the seat, trying hard to regain a modicum of breathing room. He was sweating, his wrinkled eyelids quivering without their normal control.

  ‘I’m the one who’s going to say something. Know what it is?’ he threatened. ‘That we’re in a rotten country.’

  ‘A rotten world, for that matter.’ The man laughed shrilly in a burst of relief.

  ‘Granted. But above all a rotten country. Where your rotten breed is more clueless than anywhere else,’ he shouted.

  ‘Now I understand,’ the gentleman nodded. ‘You’re not Italian, and so …’

  ‘Me, no. That’s right. I’m only from Turin,’ he concluded, tired.

  His chin was wobbling spasmodically. His right hand slowly flailed about before he was able to get a few more words out. He shrank back into his corner.

  ‘Raise those fine flags high, so they don’t pick up the stink on your hands,’ he breathed with some difficulty.

  He appeared wiped out.

  The gentleman began to rise cautiously, quietly took his suitcase and newspaper, then went out to the corridor, quickening his pace at once.

  He handed me the empty flask, pointing to the suitcase. I climbed on the seat and rummaged about, shuffling things in confusion, until I found the other whisky.

  ‘Go away, Ciccio.’ He coughed, his fingers uncertain as they struggled with the metal cap. ‘Go and have a proper conversation somewhere else. Aren’t there ever any girls on these goddamn trains? For you, I mean. I need to sleep now.’

  ‘We had a good time,’ I said.

  ‘Huh?’ He looked up for a moment, his smile bewildered. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He ran off quicker than a rabbit,’ I tried again, ‘like the conductor yesterday. This guy too: who knows what he’ll have to say about this trip?’

  He made a vague gesture, writing it off in the air.

  ‘You open it.’ He held out the flask.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better if …’

  ‘Please,’ he suddenly groaned despairingly. ‘Open it. And that’s that. No preaching.’

  I unscrewed the cap and handed back the flask; he clasped it with his hand against his chest. ‘Still here? Go on, go. Beat it. I have to try and sleep. That’s all. Don’t give it a thought. Please.’

  I went back into the corridor. In the surrounding darkness, streaks and glimmers of a first tenuous light appeared.

  Every spiteful urge had left my body, seeped away; a bland sense of peacefulness soothed my muscles and my thoughts.

  Soon the countryside would unfold in feminine undulations. Maybe I would see horses and long-horned cattle wandering loose among the patchwork of fields. And conical haystacks topping gentle slopes.

  The two syllables of the word Ro-ma rolled on my palate like a precious morsel of great sustenance.

  I no longer had the heart to turn around, to spy on him in there.

  6

  The storm was still spewing out brief bursts of rain, but the lightning and thunder were moving off. From the window of the hotel I saw a parking attendant dash across the street, stooped under a makeshift cellophane poncho. He hunkered in a doorway, where the legs and shoes of people who had already squeezed in to take shelter could be seen. Every so often a girl would lean out, laughing, to take a look. The ochre walls showed large splotches of rain; the pavement and a lop-sided row of rooftops were crossed here and there by channels of silvery coils, vivid purple streams.

  A colourful umbrella rocked slowly on a balcony, a final gust of wind overturned it.

  ‘You haven’t read me the horoscope yet, chief,’ he complained from the bed.

  In the grey light, the room’s decrepitude – the threadbare curtains, the now faded flower-patterned panels above the doors – was fully exposed. The bedsteads, unmatched, were of iron. The staff, after quite a long, trying telephone call, had granted us a shabby partition which was now placed between the two beds, further reducing the space and light.

  ‘Oscillations in the business realm, be cautious when buying and selling. Relationships: turn the other cheek to an offender. Health: psychophysical balance,’ I read.

  ‘They should be hung,’ he grumbled. ‘Go on: Capricorn.’

  ‘Great ambitions are not suited to you: take all ideas that come to mind with a grain of salt. Relationships: remain calm. Health: don’t overdo it at work. Why Capricorn, sir?’

  ‘Because of my cousin the priest,’ he scoffed. ‘Still raining?’

  ‘It’s almost stopped.’

  ‘Too bad. Roman thunderstorms: they hardly last. Wait for me downstairs. Have them call a taxi. I’m going to deal with this pain-in-the-ass cousin.’ He started to get up from the bed.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better if I waited here?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’ve known this fleabag for an eternity. Nothing ever changes here. Not even the holes in the carpet. Go downstairs.’

  His plate of sandwiches was still almost full, the bottle of Saint-Émilion, on the other hand, was empty.

  A group of elderly American women crowded about the second-floor landing. They wore plastic caps and their feet were covered in transparent bags. They laughed as they moved around and regrouped, examining small flasks, a colourful scarf, some painted seashells. The doorman was elderly as well. Extremely tall, he seemed to be supported by invisible crutches; with a finger he directed his assistant, a staunch, mustachioed young man in a new uniform.

  The taxi kept us waiting.

  When he came down, the old doorman immediately went towards him, his arms rising like wings. They shook hands and exchanged a few words with brief, thin smiles.

  Then he stepped outside to gulp in the freshly washed air.

  ‘Filthy old goat,’ he said cheerfully. ‘He must be at least a hundred. If he likes you, you can ask for the moon. Otherwise there’s no tip big enough.’

  High clouds raced along swiftly revealing patches of sky; the smell of rain and wet rubber tires rose from the sidewalk.

  The taxi driver turned down a narrow street and then another at high speed. The bamboo cane descended on his shoulder.

  ‘Unless you have hot pepper up your behind, slow down,’ came the rebuke.

  ‘Of course, sir. If it’s okay with you, it’s okay with me,’ the man laughed. He had a big toothless mouth and the back of his neck spilled over his collar in a huge roll.

  We sped along the river, the waters murky with a stale covering of foam. The leaves of the trees still seemed weighed down by the rain. After crossing a bridge, the taxi cut through a square, took an uphill street.

  ‘It would have been better to leave you at the hotel. Or let you take a walk. What do you have to do with my cousin the priest?’ he said.

  ‘But I’m glad to come.’

  ‘Suit yourself. De gustibus,’ he said unenthusiastically. ‘Not that he isn’t likeable. On the contrary. Young. A font of knowledge. Still,
he’s all priest.’

  ‘A little holiness is always good for you,’ the taxi driver offered.

  ‘Bravo,’ he leaned forward, ready, ‘and you know what I think? That to become really holy every Italian and his brother should come to Rome with permission to strangle a Roman. Am I right?’

  ‘Well,’ the driver laughed uncertainly, ‘you mean Ministers or actual Romans?’

  ‘Optional. Whoever comes along.’

  ‘Rome is magnificent,’ the man objected with a grim sigh.

  ‘Magnificent and deceitful,’ he said.

  ‘I’m ignorant and I admit it. I’m no match for you two,’ the driver replied, sizing us up in the rearview mirror. His jaw was working as he spoke. ‘But I’ve got my own ideas. And they’re clear.’

  ‘Listen to that.’

  ‘That’s right. But I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut. Out of propriety. So I don’t open it any more.’

  ‘Better your mouth than your eyes, chief,’ he said icily.

  We came through a jumble of crooked houses in glaring colours, divided by strips of gardens, a few trees, pretentious painted gates. The church at the end was low and new, of pale stone, with a minuscule bell tower. The churchyard was dry, as if it hadn’t rained there.

  ‘Do you really want me to come? I could wait here. There’s even a bar,’ I said.

  ‘A bar? A miracle. A quick coffee: to cleanse our voices before the holy water.’ He brightened. ‘Why wait here? You’d better come. He might go crazy and want to hear my confession. Then how the hell would I get out of there?’

  The handkerchief-sized vegetable garden behind the church was a joke, with stretches of gravel where tomatoes could have been grown, and pots of cacti planted in the ground in no order whatsoever. There was a painted bench against the wall and a wrought-iron table; a large geranium plant lushly overflowed its container.

  ‘Let’s sit out here,’ the priest invited shyly, ‘it’s cooler. Did you hear about the big storm? Here though, only a couple of drops. It’s always that way.’

  He was tall and lanky; they resembled one another.

  The first exchange of greetings, questions, had evaporated with a faint laugh or two, the priest’s cheeks reddening unexpectedly.