Scent of a Woman

by Giovanni Arpino

  He moved his cane until it brushed between his knees.

  ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘No cassock any more?’

  ‘No, no,’ the other said hastily, ‘I wear the cassock too. But I only wear it when I’m traveling. You know how it is.’

  ‘I don’t know a thing,’ he responded. ‘How come? Are you ashamed?’

  The priest blushed again.

  ‘No. It’s because of people. I look young, so they don’t think much of me. Better to avoid the issue.’

  He turned to me, squinting a little. ‘And you, don’t call me Father or Reverend or Reverend Father. Call me Fausto. Like him, yes. We’re nearly twins, you know. And address me informally.’

  ‘Easy with the twins,’ he corrected. ‘I’m an Aquarian, you’re a Capricorn.’

  ‘Still there’s only a difference of maybe twenty days or so.’ The priest smiled.

  ‘According to your calendar. Not according to the constellations.’

  The priest laughed again, more faintly, constantly wringing his hands in discomfort.

  ‘Damn. Look where I find you. You wrote to me from a college, months ago. You’ve regressed to parish priest, or am I wrong? Weren’t you a scholar? What happened?’

  An elderly woman in a flowery hat came forward, crunching on the gravel, and set down a tray. A bottle of water, three glasses with a squirt of mint syrup.

  ‘Thank you, signora. See you tomorrow. Thanks for everything.’

  ‘Well, I did as you asked, Reverend. There is nothing prepared. Do you want me to stop at the dairy shop? It will only take a minute,’ the woman said.

  ‘Thank you, signora, I’ll take care of it. It doesn’t matter. This is fine. Good evening. See you tomorrow,’ the priest said, flustered.

  ‘Who is she? The housekeeper? And you call her signora?’

  ‘Quiet. Be nice,’ the priest whispered anxiously. ‘She’s a good woman who helps me a little. She lives nearby. I don’t have a housekeeper. I have to get by on my own.’

  ‘A first-class establishment. Congratulations.’

  ‘Come on. Be nice. I’m the one who asked to return to a parish. Nowadays it’s important to act, more so than think.’

  He had a quiet, humble voice, with sudden wobbles and high notes.

  We drank. The taste of the mint was too sweet and the water almost warm.

  ‘I don’t hear any chickens.’

  ‘Fausto, what’s the matter with you?’ The priest laughed, bewildered. ‘What chickens?’

  ‘A parish rectory always has chickens. At least a housekeeper and some chickens, am I right?’ he persisted. ‘And I don’t hear any here. Where the hell have they stashed you? Are you being punished?’

  ‘But I just told you that …’ the priest replied, quickly giving up with a sigh.

  ‘It’s beautiful here,’ I offered.

  ‘Oh yes.’ The priest immediately shook himself. ‘And at night I have all of Rome spread out below me. A sight that never ceases to amaze me. Oh, I’m sorry, Fausto.’

  ‘Sorry for what?’ His reply sounded calm. ‘I don’t give a damn about Rome. For me it’s the capital of Turkey.’

  ‘You never change!’ The priest laughed with a hand over his mouth. ‘How happy I am to have you here. God bless you, you never change.’

  ‘You have, however. You did something. I’ll bet on it. You can tell me. Otherwise they wouldn’t have kicked you out and buried you in the boondocks like this.’

  ‘Buried? Kicked out? Why do you say that?’ the poor man fussed in a weak voice. ‘I’m happy here. I’m finally happy. I’m useful. A person can study and study, but it’s just ambition. The problems remain, humanity is still out there waiting. So one might as well make himself useful to his fellow man. I’m sorry: I can’t explain it very well.’

  ‘You explain yourself, all right. But you’re talking real nonsense. Be useful. Humanity. Fellow man. The longings of a spinster. At this rate you might as well end up in the country as a pastor. But a privileged pastor with a full belly, a farmstead, a loft full of salami, and so on.’

  The priest hid his face in his hands as if to wipe away some kind of fatigue.

  ‘Do you want to know something, Fausto?’ Then he said quietly, ‘I envy you. I’ve always envied you. You’ll say it’s blasphemy, but here’s what I think: that you’re fortunate because your suffering is with you, every minute. It stimulates you. It liberates you. Make me stop, please, don’t let me keep talking.’

  ‘No, go on, continue.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Say it, say it.’

  ‘Are you sure I’m not hurting you? I wouldn’t want to … If you only knew, I’ve thought so much about it during these years.’

  He was trembling slightly, his hands anxiously fussing with his cheeks, his temples.

  I thought of standing up, but the gravel would not allow me to steal away in silence the way I wanted to.

  ‘Go on. Keep talking.’ He laughed quietly. ‘Nothing can upset me any more. At this point: talk.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’ The priest was sad. ‘I know you. You try to defend yourself with that arrogance but instead …’

  ‘Instead? Say it.’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything any more.’ The priest seemed to give up. He was very pale. I could see the shadows under his eyes quiver in a web of tiny veins.

  His voice burst out as if he were trying to convince himself.

  ‘I think your cross illuminates you. So be it, it may be your reason for living. That is, for salvation. You’re saved. That’s why I envy you. Because you’ve already been pardoned. I envy lunatics, idiots, the sick, innocent children. Only they are able to see and understand. More so than I can.’

  He had lit a cigarette and was smoking, letting it dangle from his lips.

  ‘Do you believe in the devil, cousin?’ he then asked mildly.

  The priest shrugged his shoulders faintly. His hands left his temples so he could rub his eyes.

  ‘You don’t know. Right.’ He went on without removing the cigarette, his profile stony. ‘And yet you should believe in him. As long as the world was afraid of the devil everything was different. There were good demons and bad demons. Cops and robbers, in short, the old story. Am I making sense? Once the bad guys were gone, even the good guys had no face. The devil disappears, and all at once miracles disappear. Am I wrong?’

  ‘Good, Fausto, good,’ the priest murmured.

  ‘You’ll say I’m talking like a simpleton but …’

  ‘These are the very subjects that are the most difficult. That make us uncomfortable,’ the priest parried.

  ‘But if you envy me so much, I can help you out: I have a gun back at the hotel,’ he laughed mildly.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Of course being blind is certainly fortunate,’ he conceded, meticulously stressing every word. ‘You know why? Because you can’t picture anything any more. At least that’s what happened to me. I can’t imagine or even remember. Great advantage. A diabolical advantage, almost. If I could see the world again, here right now, I would only look at rocks, deserts. Not even trees or animals. I too am a rock. Would I be saved and pardoned for this, in your opinion? Listen: sometimes my darkness is happy. I swear. I’m quite content in it. Rare, but it happens. It’s hard to explain. Okay, that’s enough now. You see? I too have done some thinking. It took a bomb in the face to make a captain think. Am I talking too much? But you, if you have such a great desire for martyrdom, pick up and go to Africa. The world is full of Africas and Cottolengos. Purposely made to save and console your tormented souls.’

  He flicked the cigarette butt away with a twitch of his lip.

  ‘My Africa is here. My Cottolengo is here. You just have to understand things. Look around. If you only knew … Don’t let me say any more. I shouldn’t tax my strength like this.’ The priest sighed.

  Cautiously I tried to turn around on the bench at least to get them out of my sight for a moment. Up above, the sky was very clear, an expa
nse of almost phosphorescent blue. The hum of the distant city was barely audible.

  ‘Why don’t you come to Naples with us? Turn the key and disappear for two or three days,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Sure you can. We’ll have a good time. Here, I’ll even give you a moral alibi. A friend is expecting me in Naples. You know, the one who had the accident with me. Him too, blind as a bat. Come with us. You can console us. Preach to us. Attend to our sins. And we’ll reciprocate with vermicelli and clams. How’s that for an idea? Make up your mind.’

  ‘It’s not possible. I can’t leave here.’

  ‘Mass and confessions?’

  ‘Hush, please. Let’s not speak about these things. The confessions: they’re devastating.’ The priest hid his face.

  ‘Imagine that. And here I thought they were amusing.’

  ‘That’s enough Fausto, please.’

  He whistled a refrain through his teeth, lit another cigarette.

  ‘Okay, okay, I get it.’ Then he said, ‘I thought by now you were all modern, on the ball. Instead, just listen to you. You suffer, you have a mystic, old-fashioned soul. At least try not to think too much. It turns us into furious beasts. Don’t you have a parish recreation centre here? Children who come to study catechism, to play ball? You know, those priest things of yours.’

  ‘Not yet. It’s a new parish,’ the other straightened up a little.

  ‘You could start a school.’

  ‘I tried. Maybe in October I’ll try again,’ the priest replied briefly, wearily. ‘And you? What will you do when you get out of the military? Get married?’

  He was looking at me, perhaps regretting the earlier intimacies. His clear gaze widened to overcome his shyness.

  I didn’t have a chance to respond.

  ‘Ciccio is unattached. Footloose and fancy-free. That’s all they dream about today. Freedom. What do they think it is, freedom without money,’ he said in a cloud of smoke.

  ‘If you’re free, you’ll be alone,’ the priest stressed, no longer looking at me. ‘Get married, young man. As soon as you can. It’s still the most sacred thing. Life: life is divine.’

  ‘And those who study too much go crazy. So our elders said,’ he scoffed.

  ‘Your father. Such a good man. So upright.’ The priest brightened tenderly.

  ‘As upright as you want, but please, what a caustic, witty streak he had in him,’ came the quick retort. ‘I remember one day, I must have been ten years old, a woman came into the pharmacy. Disconsolate, clinging, distrustful as only certain peasant women can be. She said to my father, “Sir, my child won’t eat any more, he doesn’t play, he doesn’t laugh, he doesn’t ask for anything, what should I do? He has no fever but isn’t there some medicine perhaps?” And my father, standing there sternly with his thumbs in his waistcoat: “He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t eat, doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t play? Oh what a phenomenon, throw him under a train, quickly.”’

  ‘Fausto!’ the priest gulped pitifully, trying not to laugh.

  ‘That’s how it is. Not just stories. Now that’s it. Don’t you have any hard liquor? Any kind. That mint, I swear it depresses you.’

  He stood up and we were at his side. I as usual amazed at how he managed to get his bearings in a flash, remembering the gravel from before, his cane ready to discern and touch the corner of the geranium box.

  The priest accompanied us as far as the churchyard.

  The roofs and stone of the houses began to soften in the first tender shades of violet.

  ‘Right around there, a taxi stand,’ that faint voice advised us.

  ‘Do you still write those little articles of yours?’ He turned to face him again, the cane aimlessly twirling in the air. ‘I’ve never been able to read them, of course. But I know they were important to you. Even the magazine hasn’t come for some time. My overly devout cousin can’t figure it out. For her you’re a pure genius.’

  ‘No. That’s done. It’s over,’ the priest replied with some effort. ‘They were just frivolous vanities, trifles.’

  ‘Or they’ve censored you.’

  ‘What a thing to imagine,’ the priest evaded in a whisper, his eyes wandering over the deserted square. ‘It was ambition. Presumption. I thought I knew. Then I realized it.’

  ‘You mean some bishop of yours graciously illuminated you. With a currycomb.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake. Don’t be mean.’

  ‘Why not? I’m so good at it. Oh, the hell with it!’ He flared up. ‘I’ll throw you in my will. If I don’t nibble away at them first, which is mathematically certain, a few pence will be left to you. That way you can ditch the habit.’

  ‘Fausto, please …’

  ‘Once you discard the habit, what do you find?’ he continued relentlessly. ‘That you’re just one of a billion cases of nervous breakdown due to exhaustion. Am I right?’

  I looked at the priest, a little embarrassed. His forehead was creased with anxiety. He no longer looked at us, his gaze remote.

  I realized that with every ounce of strength remaining to him all he wanted was to see us go away.

  He held out three moist, feeble fingers without returning my grip.

  Their embrace was tepid and silent.

  ‘Is he gone?’ he snarled immediately afterwards, slicing the air with his cane. ‘An emergency whisky. Drastic treatment. Damn you, Ciccio. You didn’t open your mouth. Some help you were.’

  ‘He was so pathetic.’

  ‘Pathetic? Right. What a ninny.’

  We crossed the church square heading for the bar.

  ‘We have to eat a good meal tonight,’ he decided after a stroll through the piazzas and parks of the city centre.

  Under the trees we stopped to listen to the soft hoofbeats of horses galloping on a track. A blonde girl rode by a few feet away, gleefully whipping her foam-covered horse.

  We were now walking up a wide street with cafés and restaurants, I was describing them to him in minute detail one after the other, not forgetting the lights, the waiters’ jackets and glances, the faces and figures already sitting at the tables.

  ‘At the end, on a corner, there should be a certain bar with large comfortable armchairs. One hundred and thirty brands of whisky. Heaven!’ He smiled contentedly.

  We had let ourselves flow along with the crowd on the sidewalk, in a surge of gentle indolence. The expanse of sky, the profusion of colours, the dark lush border of a distant garden got under my skin, making me feel more alive and raring to go.

  I found the bar. It was quiet and sombre, with those same armchairs, but he wanted to sit outdoors, where he had a great time discussing alembic still blends with an old waiter. Indulgent words and ironies flowed in an exchange of flowery expressions.

  Then: ‘Let’s get out of here. No frou-frou restaurants tonight. A plain old hole-in-the-wall trattoria. With guitars. Just what we need.’ He was enjoying himself, weighing his glass.

  A glimmer of a smile gave him the affected air of a portrait from the past.

  ‘Do you really think you’re a rock? That’s what you said before.’ I put our familiarity to the test.

  ‘Of course not. I never think. That’s the secret: don’t think about anything, just laugh. All one big continuous laugh. Don’t get tedious on me, Ciccio.’

  He flicked the ash from his cigarette with a sweeping arrogant gesture.

  ‘But did you really want him with us in Naples, your cousin the priest?’ I persisted.

  ‘Oh my God, I said it while knocking on wood. What am I? A good deed doer?’ He drained his glass with relish. ‘Still: if I really wanted to do a charitable deed I should fire a shot into that cranium of his. A sure thing. In the state he’s in, the unfortunate bastard, it would be a liberation. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  I was prepared to endure his laughter or some type of scorn, but strangely enough he responded with a carefully considered, wary tone of voice.

&n
bsp; ‘You’re right. Then too maybe it’s all pretence. Not that he’s putting on an act, the poor reverend. He doesn’t realize he’s pretending. But his suffering is still in his mind. You, of course, don’t believe in the soul. Whether it exists or not, it’s certainly not the soul that does us harm.’

  7

  It was Sunday. I wasn’t surprised at his decision to put off our departure until the following day. As he coughed, leaning over the sink, I read the newspaper out loud. First the important headlines, the horoscope, last of all the classified ads in the health and beauty section which listed the addresses and phone numbers of prostitutes. At certain exaggerated adjectives, allusions to lavish attention, luxury and confidentiality, the welcome to buzz the intercom any time from 10 a.m. to 11 p.m., he would straighten up from the sink racked by wheezing laughter, immediately stifled by renewed coughing.

  He stepped out a moment, half hidden by a large towel, to tell me, ‘Don’t worry. I don’t feel venereal today. You won’t be forced to associate with risqué company.’

  He was extraordinarily modest. He would withdraw to the bathroom even just to put on or take off his shirt. He always deftly managed to conceal his left arm when it wasn’t covered up. And his tie: he could knot it in three moves.

  ‘Don’t you want me to read you anything else? Politics?’

  ‘What does politics have to do with me? Does it guarantee me the end of the world? No. So that’s enough.’

  From the bathroom he dictated the morning’s plans: first a barber, then a walk to the zoo, finally an outdoor restaurant.

  ‘Provided we don’t come across a sung mass. Don’t you love them? To me they seem perfect. Even without being able to understand the words.’

  I had slept too much. The hot, still air kept me from shaking off that heavy feeling. The acidic wine we’d been drinking in a tavern until late the night before was turning my stomach sour.

  Outside, the angle of the sun was brutal. The stones reflected too much light. The ornamental work on a house throbbed painfully in my eyes. The desire for Rome, the sense of opulence enjoyed the night before, had been spoiled, turned to toxic fatigue in my body.