Scent of a Woman

by Giovanni Arpino

  ‘I’d be willing to swear to it: in a few days he’ll be home again. With that constitution of his, healthy as a horse. He himself could still give blood. Did he shoot himself? Was he shot? Or maybe nothing more than a mistake? Only God Almighty knows. Because he, first at home and later at the hospital, didn’t utter a single word. And I don’t think he ever will.’

  A tingling sensation scampered along the walls of my stomach, like a laugh incapable of exploding.

  No one in the entire building had heard the shot, or was it shots? Sara’s mother had been the first to make the discovery, though accidentally, spurred by her womanly concern for those men, friends and customers, who had been left alone in the house without even a housekeeper. Fortunately she found the door open. A pharmacist on night-duty provided first aid, to stop the bleeding. A good friend. That’s how the morning had begun, all a distraught hustle and bustle …

  ‘I arrived later, fortunately in uniform, because of some business at the barracks. A uniform protects you. You did well to put yours back on too …’

  Certainly at the police precinct they were regretful about the disappearance of the captain from Turin. Perhaps that captain, though he too was blind, would have been able to shed some light on certain things: a fit of madness on the part of his friend, or any other motives that might have come up at the family party. But actually no one doubted that it was madness; among the severely disabled it is precisely the well-to-do, who have no issues of immediate survival, who suffer the most and sometimes lose heart to the point of harming themselves and others …

  ‘Though there are exceptions. For example, a man in my neighbourhood, also blind but sharp as a tack, you should see him eat, drink, play checkers …’

  In any case the Commissioner himself – swearing angrily as he sent away two news-hungry journalists – had very compassionately interpreted the guest’s disappearance as natural, surely motivated by emotion, despair, being powerless to help …

  ‘A very kind person, this Commissioner. But when you talk to him, watch your step. Because he always yeses you, but you have to repeat things to him a thousand times. For all his sensitivity, he’s more adamant than a tank.’

  I too had surely been a victim of that same despair. Poor dim-witted soldier, far from home. Who knows where I might be now with my captain clinging to my arm? They assumed we were missing but still in the city; with the help of God we would recover our senses, we would go back. Or some agent would recognize us, a matter of hours …

  ‘They left a policeman at the house, not a detective, only a uniformed officer. Another thing: who wiped down the gun? Do you want to know? The caretaker. A poor old woman, not even the Commissioner had the heart to scold her. Here too, God showed His hand, believe it or not.’

  In fact there had never been any talk of wrongdoing, there was no suspect, no charges, only the shadow of fate, the unfair, malevolent caprice of an existence that carries everyone along, affords no peace to any creature on this earth …

  ‘Do you get my drift? When it comes to well-bred gentlemen, even adversity puts on white gloves. That’s how it is.’ He peered at me from hooded eyelids.

  ‘What about Sara?’ I asked.

  He spread his arms in resignation before responding.

  ‘Little or nothing was said. Her mother quickly explained that the young woman was in bed, she didn’t feel well, too many iced drinks. Of course tomorrow she’ll have to appear. The Commissioner, that fine gentleman, is just like I described, he may call you “sir”, but he questions you, he telephones. And who knows what he may still be thinking? She has to show up, the young lady. Tomorrow. Maybe even better tonight.’

  I saw an electric charge go through the air. And that crawling sensation in my stomach tingled no end.

  ‘That’s how it is,’ the soldier repeated looking up at me. ‘You’re laughing? Lucky you, then.’

  But I wasn’t able to. My throat was parched, stifled.

  ‘Plain crazy,’ he said between sighs, his eyes downcast again. ‘But the whole world is that way. You just have to be forewarned.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Right.’

  My eyes held a vision, ridiculous but real: a kind of toy track, with lots of tiny cars racing along; swiftly they devour the space ahead of them, mindlessly perfect. And we were just like them. Something had held us in a vacuum, something else now set us back in motion.

  ‘But you, didn’t your leave expire?’ he was really worried. ‘Don’t take a chance and leave that way. Have them issue you something in writing. From the precinct, from your captain if he’s still aware of what’s going on. Or even from the Commissioner. Listen to me. Do you want to pay for other people’s messes?’

  ‘No, no.’

  He raised his sharp face again.

  ‘And the young lady? I mean, did anything happen?’

  ‘What?’ I said, realizing too late.

  He was already raising his hands in surrender.

  ‘Why are you looking at me that way?’ he shot back, satisfied. ‘I was just asking. What harm would there be? In these situations, with all the anxiety, the darkness, the confusion. A man is still a man. Things happen. But then she only has eyes for that other one, the crazy one, right? I forgot.’

  ‘She’s a good girl,’ I reproached him foolishly.

  ‘Of course. Who would deny it?’ he agreed, surprised. ‘But even good girls can be fun like the others. Maybe even more so.’

  I glanced towards the curve of the path, certain I would see Sara. Though on the other hand she might have fallen asleep or joined him under the tree again.

  ‘You: were you there?’ Miccichè asked in his most distracted tone.

  ‘We heard. From the courtyard.’

  ‘Didn’t see? Anything?’

  ‘Only heard. Then—’

  He quickly gestured for me to stop.

  ‘I don’t want to know,’ he said bluntly. ‘The less I know the better it is. Still, you’ll have to tell the Commissioner something. And always the same thing, like a broken record. Think about it ahead of time. You can say you were sleeping. Or that you had too much to drink. No, wait: not drunk. For those people being drunk is always an aggravating circumstance.’

  I pointed behind him.

  ‘I’ll have to talk with him about it.’

  He shook his head in disgust.

  ‘Bravo. You really found your man. First he drowns you, then he asks you if you’re all right; first he grinds you into the dirt, then he asks you if you liked it, if you’re okay.’

  ‘You don’t know him.’

  ‘And I don’t want to know him. Still, he’s a gentleman and you’ll get to hell before him.’ He laughed, showing his long teeth.

  I laughed too. ‘Are you a communist?’

  He pointed a finger at me. ‘There are situations where I can talk like a communist. But I don’t get worked up over politics. I have enough troubles of my own. And you, what are you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, ‘I don’t believe in those things. Never have.’

  He nodded gravely. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘everyone has to solve his own problems. A small fish swims fast, too many small fish together attract nets.’

  ‘Still, I envy them, those others. United, they keep each other company. At least it seems that way.’

  ‘Seems. Exactly. It’s all show.’ He rubbed his nose vigorously up and down. ‘Mules get along well together, thoroughbred horses don’t. Though this is a world that is more and more for mules. All shouting the same things. Do you get me? Because I’m glad to be your friend. A friend from another place is always an advantage in life.’

  ‘A records clerk, you told me the other day. What preparation have you had? Or are you still studying?’

  He pulled a long face, glum. ‘I’ve already finished my schooling. But they were worthless studies. A records clerk, true, that too, but in the near future. I have an uncle on my mother’s side in the public records department, at the town hall. H
e’s holding a post for me, for when I finish military duty. Some fun, huh? But first this famous job and then we’ll see. But why are we still here talking? It’s hot, the sun is blazing, we haven’t eaten and you have the Commissioner to think about. Slippery as an eel, that’s how you have to be. And the captain? Up at the house?’

  ‘No. Back there. He’s probably drinking.’

  ‘You fell for it,’ he rebuked me sadly. ‘You took him seriously. Me, as soon as I saw him, I said to myself: a Punchinello. A skinny, dried-up buffoon who swallowed his stick to stand up straight and—’

  He broke off, pointed a thumb towards the path. I saw Sara silhouetted against the light. She was coming towards us, managing not to quicken her step. She seemed more refreshed, her eyes serene; maybe she had slept in the last half hour. Without a word she held out her hand to Miccichè, who had stood up again.

  My brief flicker of happiness was quickly reduced to cinders in the depths of my heart.

  ‘Let him explain it to you. He knows everything,’ I said moving away. ‘I’m going back to him. Still there?’

  ‘The lieutenant won’t talk. He’ll never talk. Not even if they skinned him alive. That’s the truth. That’s the important thing you have to know,’ Miccichè mumbled again, looking at nothing and no one. ‘And given that, go ahead and fabricate your own scenario.’

  ‘So he isn’t dead and I seem to be alive,’ he pronounced as soon as I finished telling him.

  He tried to smile, his lined face belying his actual age. He shrank back against the tree in the last remaining arc of shade, the bottle almost empty.

  ‘Poor Vincenzino. The failure. The absurdity …’ he went on, the fingernails of his right hand picking at the stubble on his cheek, his chin.

  In the distance, the regular pounding of a hammer.

  He then tried to move his left arm. The rigid glove dangled.

  ‘I’m coming unhinged.’

  And he laughed, a single burst like a sob.

  ‘I feel filthy,’ he began complaining again. ‘How stupid, right? And yet if I were washed and my clothes pressed everything would seem different. Ah, that bar of ours in Rome. Remember? A match, Ciccio. Even the lighter doesn’t work any more. So much for our fine self-sufficiency.’

  I went all around the tip of the cigarette, lighting it carefully.

  ‘The fog,’ he continued softly, ‘do you remember our fog? In Turin? And its scent, the finest in the world. The one in November is the best. I’m not drunk, Ciccio, don’t worry. But you, doesn’t this dry air bother you?’

  I pictured my city, the viewer speckled like the film of an old movie, black and white, in grainy filaments, light drizzles. And I felt a great, slow desire to be reabsorbed in it, to wander about that screen without my true face any more.

  An insect with transparent purplish wings was climbing along his jacket. I flicked it away with my fingernail.

  ‘Know what I am? The eleven of spades. My father was right. With each failure, or when money disappeared from the drawer of the pharmacy, he took it out on my mother: you drew the eleven of spades; now we have to put up with it.’

  He smiled, blowing smoke.

  ‘But there is no eleven of spades,’ I objected.

  ‘Exactly. A card that isn’t in the deck. Not good for playing any game,’ he approved, the cigarette following the movement of his lips, his neck rigid in an effort of will.

  Again he said, ‘Poor Vincenzino, if you had come to my house maybe now …’

  I don’t want to listen to you any more, I thought.

  I had an ache between the back of my neck and my shoulder, fatigue rankling in my body. There seemed to be no remedy.

  ‘What do you plan to do, sir?’

  ‘Sir. Lord. Heavenly Father. Great God in heaven, if only I were a little swallow,’ he mocked, but very weakly.

  Then: ‘Don’t worry, my friend. Today, tonight, you’re leaving. And you won’t have any trouble. My word. If you still trust it.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about me.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  ‘Good, me too. Incredible. I’m stinking filthy, a lost cause, if I fire a shot I miss that too, I land whoever may be around in trouble, yet I’m hungry. Simple, right?’

  He laughed again, sprinkling cigarette ash on himself.

  ‘What do I plan to do, you ask? Surrender. And trust in the generosity of the enemy.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Who is: you’ll see. Or actually, no. You won’t see a damn thing.’ He slumped back, bowing his head.

  Sara was returning. Miccichè was already standing mistrustfully beside the car; when I motioned him to come over, he replied no with his head, his hand. He sat down next to a wheel without looking at us.

  ‘Fausto, I’m here. Have you heard? What if it’s a trap?’ the girl said.

  ‘Sara, Sara, why aren’t you like the other girls?’ He still tried to smile at her.

  She shuffled her feet sombrely in the grass, her eyes downcast.

  ‘I’ll end up that way. Thanks to this, thanks to that, I too will end up like all the others. Some good it will do me, for my future,’ she responded.

  ‘You talk like you’re already widowed!’ He tried to laugh, but the effort was so pathetic that Sara just looked at him, without the heart to answer him back.

  ‘I could put the suitcase in the car,’ I said.

  ‘Hold it. First a swig. Let’s not abandon our routines so quickly,’ he said, retrieving the bottle. ‘And don’t slink off all the time, you.’

  Sara’s hostile gaze was on me.

  ‘Fausto, it’s a trap. I can feel it,’ she started in again.

  ‘Okay, okay. I get it. All the better,’ he said, exasperated.

  Miccichè was now studying us, his fingers gesturing questioningly, trying to hurry me up.

  ‘We have to go,’ he decided.

  ‘Where should I take you?’ the girl asked quietly.

  He replied curtly, ‘The first carabiniere.’

  ‘Fausto …’

  ‘So be it. Not a word.’

  Sara nodded, her hands upside-down in her lap, her ashen face expressionless.

  ‘I just meant, would you like to take a bath, freshen up a little?’ she said softly. ‘Shall I take you to my house? It would only take a minute, what’s one minute …’

  ‘And your mother?’ he said, surprised.

  ‘I don’t care. About anyone. Just let them try to stop me,’ she retorted harshly. ‘And keep in mind: I’m going with you, I’m taking you there. And if I have to keep quiet, I’ll keep quiet. But I’m staying with you till the end.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘That I’m staying with you until the others kick me out, even forcibly. Not you.’

  ‘I won’t send you away again. Not me,’ he replied weakly. And turned his head.

  I saw a shudder pass between Sara’s shoulders.

  ‘Swear,’ she whispered. Her hand which had already reached out shrank back, frightened, clasping the other hand.

  ‘Yes, yes. I swear. You heard me. But that’s enough now,’ he murmured, overcome.

  15

  I can’t help remembering.

  It all happened as if seen through inverted binoculars: me perpetually, breathlessly in pursuit of faces, glimpses, shadows, fragments of images quickly lost, which only the mysterious powers of a dream could produce.

  It all ended the exact same way.

  Except it wasn’t a dream.

  Today I remember Sara’s actions, sober, thought out. Unhurriedly, she cleaned him up with a wet handkerchief, from his temples to the corners of his mouth, his right hand one fingernail at a time. She straightened his collar, his tie.

  He was docile, unaware.

  And Miccichè, who kept saying, ‘Will they hurry up? Where the hell do they think they’re going? To the opera?’

  Then they set out in the car, while I sat on the back seat of the
motor scooter, clinging to Miccichè.

  I can no longer describe the exhaustion I felt then. The body is blessed because it forgets. But I recall all too well my impervious mind, its desire to rush headlong into a whirlwind and run and run.

  Passing them, driving side by side, having them pass us in turn, I never saw them exchange a word, she alert at the wheel, he reclining.

  The road was all curves, the air fiery, stinging between my shirt and skin.

  Naples swallowed us up almost immediately.

  Our goodbyes at the end were very brief.

  ‘So long, Ciccio,’ he fired at me with feigned energy. ‘Here. Forget all this.’

  I kept my papers, but handed the money to Sara, who slipped it into her belt.

  ‘Catch your train. Go. Don’t worry,’ he added, ‘I’ll protect you. When it’s time, it’s time. I’m turning myself in: even the combat manuals say so. And keep in mind, I’ll tell the truth. If you’re forced to, tell yours as well.’

  His was no longer a face but a withered leaf.

  ‘Say goodbye to our friend,’ he suggested to Sara.

  We were on a street corner. It seemed to me that the sliver of sea back there was not far from the lieutenant’s house.

  Sara did not speak. She shook my hand. After a moment they disappeared arm-in-arm.

  I still remember Miccichè, who was also silent.

  He drove through narrow streets and alleys before finding a pizzeria that appealed to him. He insisted on paying with the few lire he had, no question about it. A train at 3.03 p.m., we managed to find out.

  ‘Can I write to you? Will you give me your address?’ I can still hear his voice. ‘What did you leave at the lieutenant’s house? Razor, clothes? I’ll take care of it. You go, you have to leave. I’ll see to it, I’ll send them. Trust me.’

  He accompanied me to the station, following me to the ticket office, then the bathroom. I bought him a coffee at the bar. Not another word amid all that noise. His eyes had grown sad, like when a party’s over.

  ‘Too bad. I’m really sorry. But you can’t stay here. For now that’s the way it is,’ he said simply.

  The waiters pushed and shoved behind the counter in their frantic haste to serve and clear away.