When we were inside, he went to the window, leaned his back against the wall, and watched me pace around the room.
"Professor, I am happy," he burst out unexpectedly. I had turned my back to rinse out my mouth.
I asked him why and he replied with a wave of the hand, as if to say: "That's how it is."
Even that afternoon we did no reading. He began telling me how every so often he felt an urge to work, a mania, a need to do something; not so much to study as to have some responsible position, some real work to give himself up to, day and night, so as to become a man like the rest of us, like me. "Well, work then," I told him. "You're young. I wish I were in your place." Then he said he didn't see why people made so much of being young; he would rather be thirty—it would be so much time gained—the intervening years were stupid.
"But all years are stupid. It's only when they're over that they become interesting."
No, Berti said, he couldn't really find anything interesting in his fifteen, in his seventeen years; he was glad they were behind him.
I told him the good thing about his age was that the foolishnesses didn't count, for the very reason that displeased him, because he was still considered a boy.
He looked at me with a smile.
"Then the things I do aren't foolish?"
"It depends," I said. "If you annoy the wives of my friends, it will certainly be a piece of foolishness as well as a discourtesy."
"I don't bother anyone," he protested.
"That remains to be seen."
He confessed in the course of our talk that he had stupidly assumed that the lady was my friend's mistress and that to learn she was his wife instead had pleased him, because it made him furious that women, just because they were women, should offer themselves to the first comer. "There are days when the world and life itself seem like one big cathouse."
At that moment a shrill voice I recognized interrupted him, an exasperated woman. It rose from the street, talking back to our landlady. We looked at each other. Berti fell silent and lowered his eyes. I knew it was the woman of the beach, his mistress in a manner of speaking. Berti stayed put.
The landlady said: "He's not here; I know nothing about it." The woman shrilled back, declaring that nobody ever showed her such lack of respect—it would take more than holy water to rinse the landlady's mouth out, she proclaimed.
When they had shut up as someone walked by, I waited for Berti to speak, but he was looking off into space, glum and distracted.
As he went off, I told him to behave so that these things wouldn't happen. I cut our meeting short and closed the door.
He didn't show up at the rocks that evening. Guido did, mopping sweat off his face. Clelia teased him by asking when we would be going dancing on the hill again.
"Do you hear that?" he said to Doro. "Your wife wants to dance."
"Not me," Doro said.
Clelia was telling me about a small loggia in her uncle's old palazzo that she had just thought of that evening and wanted to see once again. Guido listened for a while, then said that I was just the man to appreciate those voices from the past.
Clelia smiled, taken aback, and replied that we all were awaiting our news of the present from him. We looked at Guido, who winked—for my benefit, I imagine—and said to Clelia that at least she should tell us about something interesting: her first ball, for instance—a woman's first ball is always full of surprises.
"No, no," said Clelia. "We want to hear about your first ball. Or maybe about the last, yesterday evening."
Doro got up and said, "Take it easy. I'm going swimming."
"Exactly," I said. "People are always talking about the first balls of young girls. What about those of little boys? What happens to future Guidos the first time they embrace a girl?"
"There isn't any first time," Clelia said. "The future Guidos don't begin at a given date. They've been at it even before they were born."
We kept it up like this until Doro returned. Clelia enjoyed aggressive jokes like that, adding, unless I am mistaken, a teasing sous-entendu, a touch of malice that Guido sometimes missed. Or rather he had an air of being too preoccupied to notice it. But the mock-angry pleasure he took in the game made me smile.
I said: "You seem like husband and wife."
"Clod!" said Clelia.
"What else can you do but joke with a woman like Clelia?" Guido said.
"There's only one man you can't joke with," I said in my turn.
"Naturally," Clelia agreed.
Doro turned around and flung himself on the sand in the sun's last rays. After a while Guido got up and said he was going to the bar. He walked off among the poles of closed umbrellas, threading his way through the coming and going of the evening beach. Some distance away, Ginetta and her young friends were noisily greeting an arriving boat. The three of us were quiet; I listened to the thud of the waves and the muted cries.
"Do you know, Clelia," I said finally, "that after seeing you my student decided to change his life?"
Doro raised his head. Clelia opened her eyes in amazement.
"He has chucked that lover of his and damns all women. It's an infallible sign."
"Thanks," Clelia murmured.
Doro lay back again. "Considering that Doro is present," I went on, "I can tell you. The boy's in love with you."
Clelia smiled without moving. "I'm sorry for that woman... Isn't there anything I can do?"
I smiled.
"When you think of all those hungry girls," Clelia said, "it's a nuisance."
"Why then?" I said. "He is happy. He's happier than we are. You should see him caressing trees.. . He's drunk with it."
"If it takes him like that..." Clelia said.
Doro turned over on the sand. "Oh, cut it out..." he said.
We told him to keep quiet because he had nothing to do with it. Clelia looked down awhile without speaking. "But is it really true?" she asked suddenly.
I laughed and reassured her. "What does that fool see in me?" she asked. She looked at me suspiciously. "You're all fools," she said.
I repeated that my student was happy and that was good enough; I wouldn't mind being a fool on those terms.
Clelia smiled and said: "That's true. It reminds me of when I stayed in the loggia and instead of studying I threw twists of paper down at the necks of passers-by. Once a man looked up and scared me to death. He wanted to know what I had written to him. It was a Latin composition."
Doro laughed, stretched out with his face in the sand.
"And that man was Guido," I said.
Clelia stared at me. What did I have against Guido, she asked. I stuck to my guns. "I know him," I said.
"Guido doesn't do those things," Clelia said. "Guido respects women."
10
Somewhat hesitatingly Guido invited me to go up there one evening in the car. "Nina will be there. Sure you won't mind?" He glanced at Berti, who had been dawdling a few steps behind to let me talk, then looked questioningly at me. I asked him to bring Berti along, a young lad of spirit who could dance, which was more than I could say for myself. Guido frowned and said: "Of course." Then I introduced them.
It was an evening of silences. Berti had expected to find Clelia and instead had to dance with Nina, who looked him up and down and lost her tongue in the process. The rest of us sat silently at the table watching the couples. It was not that Guido wanted to get rid of Nina; the remarks he dropped seemed to me only his way of letting off steam. "I've reached the age, professor, when I can't change my way of life, but if Nina wants to have some fun, see new places, new company to distract her, I would look favorably on the idea."
"You've only to tell her."
"No," Guido said. "She feels lonely. You understand; a man has friends, relationships to keep up. He can't always give her all his time."
"Wouldn't a frank explanation do the trick?" I suggested.
"With other women, but not with her. She's a friend, an old friend, you see... a de
manding woman, do I make myself clear?"
Then Nina had a few dances with him; Berti smoked cigarettes at the table, glancing around. He asked me if the woman was Guido's wife.
"Not she," I told him. "She belongs to the world you dream about. Who are you looking for?"
"No one."
"My friends aren't coming. When this woman is here, they stay away."
That night under the stairway by the olive tree I asked him if Nina had appealed to him, and seeing his smirk I said that he would have done Guido a great favor if he had amused her for a while. "But if he is tired of her, why doesn't he chuck her?" Berti said.
"Try and ask him," I said.
Berti did not ask him, but instead, the evening after, having discovered that we would be going up to dance with Clelia and Guido, he went up on foot—I don't know if he had eaten or not. We saw him threading down among the tables to a seat in the back. He had a soft drink in front of him and threw a cigarette away. But he didn't move.
Ginetta didn't happen to be in the party. Now that I seemed to be able to read his mind, I realized that he had expected Ginetta to be there to lead off the dance with. Guido, very much rejuvenated by his evening of freedom, was looking around, pleased with himself. He waved vaguely in Berti's direction. Berti got up and came over. Being a coward, I stared at the floor. "How is the signora?" Berti asked.
Clelia broke the embarrassment with an irrepressible burst of laughter. Then Guido answered: "We are all very well," in a tone of voice and with a large wave of the hand that made us all smile, except Berti, who blushed. He stood there looking at us until I, squinting at Clelia, couldn't resist saying: "This is the famous Berti." Doro made him a bored sign to sit down, grumbling: "Stick with us."
Naturally it fell to me to entertain him. Berti, sitting on the edge of his chair, gazed at us patiently. I asked him what he was doing alone up here,- he answered like someone trying hard to listen to the orchestra.
"My friend tells me you have stopped studying," Doro put in. "What are you doing, working?"
"I am unemployed," Berti retorted, somewhat fiercely.
"My friend tells me that you're enjoying yourself," Doro went on. "Have you made friends?"
Berti merely said no. We were all silent. Clelia, half turned toward the orchestra, said: "Berti, do you dance?"
I was grateful to her for those words. Berti forced himself to meet her eyes and nodded. "It's a shame that Ginetta and Luisella haven't come," Clelia said. "You know them, don't you?" Without looking away, Berti replied that he did. "Aren't we going to dance?" said Clelia.
None of us said anything as they moved off. Guido made a fuss to get a coffee spoon; meanwhile I looked over at Doro. He must have seen an anxious question on my face, because as I was about to hide my embarrassment by staring off in another direction, I noticed him frowning, then smiling halfheartedly.
"What is it?" Guido asked, getting up.
Clelia and Berti came back almost at once. Whether the band was playing faster than usual or whether my nervousness had distracted me I can't say, but back they came, and Clelia said something I can't recall, something she might have said climbing out of a taxi. Berti followed her like a shadow.
They danced once again in the course of the evening. I think Clelia had encouraged him with a look. Berti rose without saying anything and, scarcely looking at her, waited for Clelia to join him. During the intervals when I was sitting at the table either with Doro or with Guido, occasionally one of us would address a word to Berti, who answered condescendingly, in monosyllables. Guido danced often with Clelia, returning to the table with sparkling eyes. Then we all stayed at the table for a while, gossiping. Berti made an effort not to look at Clelia too much, watching the orchestra in a bored, absent-minded way. He said nothing. At this point Guido spoke to him: "Are you taking makeup exams this autumn?"
"No," Berti muttered calmly.
"Because you have more the face of an exam-taker than of an educated person."
Berti grinned foolishly. Clelia smiled, too. Doro stayed put. Seconds passed and nobody spoke. Guido scowled at us and mumbled something. Most offensive of all was the half-scornful grin he dedicated to Berti. As if to say: "That's done. Let's forget it."
Berti said nothing. He went on smiling vaguely. All at once Clelia said: "Shall we dance?" I raised my head. Berti got up.
Clelia came back to the table, calmly nodding to someone she knew on her way. She sat down,- there was a tired, almost sulky expression on her face, and without looking at us, she murmured: "I hope that now you're going to be more entertaining." A number of her friends emerged from the shadow and distracted her.
During our ride home in the car, Clelia replied, to a hint of mine, that Berti had not said a word while they were dancing. But Guido, on the other hand, said a great many when the two of us went later for a last trip to the bar. He explained that he couldn't stand boys and especially couldn't allow them to put on the air of reading him a lesson. "They too have to live," I said, "and learn from experience."
"Let them wait until they've run through as many as we have," Guido said stubbornly.
Nina was waiting for him at the bar. I was expecting her. She was sitting at a low table, her chin on her fist, watching the smoke from her cigarette. She nodded to us, and while Guido was ordering at the bar, she asked me in her husky, uneven voice, but without moving her arm, why I hadn't shown up sooner.
"What about yesterday evening?" I said.
"You don't dance, you don't sunbathe, you don't eat with anyone, why don't you come with us? Oh, Guido's friends! What has that woman got to seduce you all? Don't tell me it's the engineer's company you're after."
"I'm not saying anything," I stammered.
It was so warm that evening it was a shame to go inside. I had no idea whether or not Berti was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs. Probably he had gone to sit on the beach and mull over his shame. I wouldn't have wanted to see him. Back in my room, I stood for a long time at the window.
Berti called me from the street early the next morning. Our lane was still completely in shadow. He asked if I weren't coming with him to swim. He was quiet awhile, then asked if he could come up. He entered aggressively, his eyes shining and tired. "Does this seem the right time?" I said. He looked as if he hadn't slept and told me as much right off, very casually. He seemed actually proud of it. "Come to the sea, professor," he insisted. "There's nobody there."
I had to write a letter. "Professor," he said, after a short pause, "all you have to do is turn the night into day and everything becomes beautiful."
I looked up from my paper. "Troubles at your age are light."
Berti smiled with a certain hardness. "Why should I have troubles?" He looked down.
"I thought you had quarreled..." I said.
"With whom?" he interrupted.
"All right, then," I grumbled.
"Come in swimming, professor," Berti said. "The sea is huge."
I told him I would be coming later with my friends and to leave me in peace. He went, with an expression half serious, half irritated, and immediately I blamed myself for having treated him so meanly. But patience, I thought, you are learning something at his expense.
I met Guido at the bar. He was wearing white shorts and an open-neck shirt as usual; the bogus virility of his tan made me smile. Guido smiled and held out his hand, raising his eyes to the roofs, sly and severe at once. "What a day!" he said. It was indeed a wonderful sky and a splendid morning. "Have a glass of Marsala, professor. Last night, eh?" He winked, I don't know why, and refused to let me go. "And what is the beautiful Clelia doing?" he said.
"I've just come from my room."
"Always the sober one, eh, professor?"
We walked off. He asked me if I were staying much longer. "I'm beginning to have enough," I said. "Too many complications."
Guido was not listening, or perhaps he missed the point.
"You don't have company," he said.
"I have my friends."
"Not enough. I share the same friends, but I wouldn't be in such fine form this morning if I'd slept in a single bed."
As I didn't reply, he explained that he also enjoyed Clelia's company, but the smoke was not the roast.
"And the roast would be..."
Guido laughed loudly. "There are women of flesh," he said, "and women of air. A deep breath after dinner is great. But first you have to eat."
Actually, I said, I was at the sea for Doro's sake.
"Incidentally," I added, "he's not painting any more."
"It's about time," retorted Guido.
But neither Clelia nor Doro came to the beach that morning. Neither Gisella nor any of the others knew why. I got impatient by noon, and taking advantage of the others' plans for a boat trip, I went home to dress and climbed up to the villa. No one in the street. I was about to open the gate when Doro and an elderly gentleman with a cane and a panama hat came out on the walk. The latter walked slowly toward the road, nodding at things I couldn't hear. Doro, when we were alone, looked at me with dancing eyes.
"What's going on?" I said.
"It happens that Clelia is pregnant."
Before showing my pleasure, I waited for Doro to give the lead. We went up the walk toward the steps. Doro seemed amused and unbelieving. "The truth is, you're happy," I said.
"I want to see how it works out first," he said. "It's the first time it's happened to me."
Then Clelia came out of her room, asking who was there. She smiled at me, almost as if to excuse herself, and put her handkerchief to her mouth. "Don't I disgust you?" she said.
Then we talked about the doctor, who had run on a good deal about responsibility and wanted to return with all sorts of instruments to make a scientific diagnosis. "What a nut!" Clelia said.
"Nonsense," Doro retorted. "Today we are going to take the train to Genoa. You've got to see De Luca."
Clelia looked at me. "You see," she said. "Paternity has started already. He's giving orders."
I said I was sorry they would have to cut off their vacation; but otherwise it was a fine thing.
The Beach Page 6