The Wolf That Fed Us

by Robert Lowry

  Giuseppe smiled, and she smiled back at him. She brought their clasped hands up from under the table—she wanted those four soldiers over there to see what kind of person she was.

  “Are you from Rome?” Giuseppe asked. “I’m from San Cialo—a long way. I came here last night.”

  “Last night,” she said. “No, I’m not from Rome, I’m from Ancona. Eighteen days ago I was in Ancona. I lived there all my life, but maybe I’ll never go back. An American officer brought me here—in his jeep. You understand a jeep? He devirginized me and brought me here. Eighteen days ago,” she repeated, as if it were a period of days she wanted to remember, “I was a virgin. Now I’m not a virgin anymore. Now I’m having a good time.”

  He looked into her face—as innocent as that of a thirteen-year-old who’s found her older sister’s cosmetics box. He noticed the indentation at the bottom of her smooth throat. “I like you very much,” he said, and she touched his cheek with the tips of her fingers. He was so different from her capitano—he laughed so much more. She liked him very much too.

  “Let’s go,” she said. “Let’s go presto.”

  As they were walking out one of the soldiers shouted, “Take your time” to her soldier. She didn’t understand what he meant.

  They climbed into a carriage. Crossing the Tiber she pointed out the Vatican to him. The horse smelled good, the sun beat down, people turned to look at them. They stopped near an apartment house, he paid the driver, then told her to wait a moment before she followed him in.

  She waited the moment and followed—through a great door and across the courtyard around which the apartment house was built. He was waiting for her in the cool shadows of the hallway; he brushed her cheek with his lips as they started up the stairs. She giggled when he squeezed her hand: even now it felt foolish to be going to a room with a boy she’d met only an hour before.

  As he rapped with the knocker, she noticed that the brass nameplate on the door said GIORGIO VALSETTI. Footsteps sounded in the apartment and the door opened a crack, opened wider; Giuseppe motioned for her to come. A stout pouter-pigeon of a woman, over rouged and with her black hair carefully done up close to her head, moved aside to let them in but continued holding the doorknob in her hand. She looked from the soldier to Maria and back again—her mouth hung open and Maria noticed that her teeth were very white and had a slight division between the front two. Was this her usual expression or was she really too astonished to speak? Maria saw another woman, younger and darker-complexioned, peering in from the next room.

  “Signora Valsetti, mia amica Maria Consorti,” Giuseppe said, and Maria was so confused at being introduced, just like nothing doing, that she forgot to take the hand offered her. Giuseppe had her arm and led her through a dining-room, down a little hall and into a bedroom.

  He locked the door and came over to her. “Bella,” he said. His mouth was warm.

  When he released her she looked at him sidewise and said the American words that always made the soldiers smile: “Hel-lo, baby. I lawv you ve-ry moch!” And he smiled.

  And they sat down on the side of the bed and smoked cigarettes.

  “You’re very beautiful,” he said.

  She laughed and squeezed his hand. “I am always light, I am always laughing,” she said.

  “I love you because you’re always laughing.”

  “Sadness is no good,” she said, and her child’s face was very serious with this thought.

  “You’re blond,” he said. “You have beautiful hair,”

  “It isn’t real,” she answered. “I’m really brunette.”

  She reached for her bag—crammed so full of things. In her bag was really everything she owned: an unopened pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes a soldier had given her two days ago, a handkerchief, lipstick, a red comb, a tiny bottle of perfume, two pieces of American chewing gum, three thousand lire, a police registration card and a little folder of pictures. She took out the little folder of pictures and showed him a photo of herself with an American lieutenant. “This is the lieutenant,” she said. “He devirginized me—he brought me to Rome. Now he’s gone. Eighteen days ago I was in Ancona, I was a virgin. Now I’m in Rome”—she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him—“and I’m always light, I’m always laughing.”

  Giuseppe was looking at the photograph. It was worn, for she’d taken it from her fat bag many times to look at and to show. There stood Ancona’s Maria Consorti, a darkhaired, dark-eyed girl, plump and large-breasted. The lieutenant was young and lean; his arms lay across Maria’s shoulders and his eyes regarded the camera coldly. Yet there was really no one in the picture who resembled the slim painted blond girl sitting beside Giuseppe.

  “I’m tired of clothes,” she said, and stood up and began to take off her dress.

  He unclasped her tight brassiere and stood looking down at her, his face so serious that she had to laugh. And in the little bed she threw herself at him: he was food and drink and life to her. She laughed at him and rubbed noses with him—pointed at him and roared, for the miracle of a man’s body was still something very funny to her.

  It was stifling hot in the room with the curtains drawn, but he was so good to her. Afterward he got up and brought a washrag and washed her face—it felt so good and she loved him for it; she spread the washrag on her chest and lay there smiling up at him. Then he brought her a glass of water and held it while she drank from it, and she said, “I’m your bambina,” and laughed, throwing her arms wildly around his neck and hugging him.

  “You’re very thin now,” he said, noticing the way her ribs stood out. “In the photo you were a little fat—I like you that way. You eat more eggs, more spaghetti, then you’ll be plump again.”

  “I like to be a little thin,” she said. “I’m prettier.”

  “No, you have to eat.” He rustled around in his barracks bag and brought out three candy bars, a box of chocolate marshmallow cookies and two packages of chewing gum. She put the candy bars and gum into her bag, then opened the box of cookies and offered him one. She ate four of them, and wrapped the rest in a piece of paper and put them in her bag too.

  At that moment she spied the time on the dresser alarm clock. Four-ten. She jumped out of bed. “I have to go,” she said. “I have to meet my capitano.”

  “You love your capitano?” he asked.

  Laughingly she looked at him. “He’s good to me,” she said.

  Dressed, her lipstick on, her blond hair still wild though she’d combed it, she came over to him and put her hands on his shoulders.

  “Will I see you tomorrow, Giuseppe?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “At one o’clock, the same place?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I’ll wait for you. Will you wait for me if I’m late?”

  “Yes,” he said. She saw that he was a little sad. She smiled at him and kissed him—very lightly in order not to spoil the mouth she’d made herself.

  Going out she noticed the other bed. “Why? Your blond friend?”

  “Yeah,” Giuseppe answered.

  “No buono, two in a room.” She grinned. “For a girl, no buono.”

  “I know,” he said. “Impossible to find another bedroom.”

  He went to the door with her. “Tomorrow,” she said, “I’ll wait for you. Will you wait for me?”

  He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back, hard as she could.

  “Goodbye, ba-by,” Maria said. “I lawv you ve-ry moch.”

  Walking toward the hotel as swiftly as her strong peasant legs would carry her, she felt sad for the first time all day. She didn’t know why she should be sad, but that was the way she was. Perhaps it was because she didn’t really want to be running from the bedroom of Giuseppe to the bedroom of her capitano. That cool washrag had been very nice. . . .

  A jeep in front of the hotel—and there he was behind the wheel, a girl and another officer with him. She ran, climbed in beside him and off they went. They rode all around
the city, taking many photographs, drinking a lot, both girls screaming when the jeep turned a corner on two wheels. When they arrived back at the hotel it was already growing dark. She saw from the way her capitano climbed out that he was pretty drunk—but no drunker than those two in the back seat. As for her own head, well, it wasn’t exactly stationary.

  Up in the room her capitano poured out two stiff drinks in big glasses. “Drink, baby,” he said, pulling her onto his knee and feeling her breast. “Drink and be happy, cause tomorrow your daddy’s gonna die.” She didn’t understand a word of it, so she just laughed and looked at him sidewise and said: “Hel-lo, baby. I lawv you ve-ry moch!” Then she kissed him, as hard as she knew how.

  She forgot to turn and wave to her capitano, she was so excited with what she had to do. And the soldiers who spoke to her went completely unnoticed now. Five thousand lire she had to spend—five thousand lire in her fat red bag, and she was off to do her shopping. Tomorrow—tomorrow, the trip! She’d be all dressed up in her new outfit for it—new shoes, new dress, new bag, even new underwear. Tomorrow he was returning to his base near Florence, and she could go along—for a whole week she could stay with him. After that, of course, she’d have to come back to Rome. But a week was a long way off, and now she could buy and buy and buy. And at one o’clock, she thought suddenly, I’ll meet Giuseppe—he’s nice too. Her life seemed very full and certain to her at this moment, as if the world were arranged only for her to enjoy many adventures dressed up in her brand-new clothes.

  She bought a white cord purse to sling over her shoulder for a thousand lire, but she couldn’t find a dress she liked. There wasn’t much to select from—all the Roman women were buying wildly in the heat of getting their hands on the crisp new Allied invasion currency that was filling up the town. She wondered how the stores could contain the torrents of this new money. It was a miracle it didn’t flow out into the streets—drift into the gutters and against the buildings like fall leaves.

  At twelve-thirty she headed toward the park, sure he would be there. He’d been too nice to her not to be there.

  But no Giuseppe sat on the bench where she’d first seen him. When she hesitated in front of it, undecided whether to sit down or walk around a bit, a soldier came over and spoke to her. She turned away, went on down the street and around the corner, the same direction they’d taken the day before. Resting on a bench for a few minutes, she wondered whether he’d really come. Of course he will, she decided. Of course he will. Then looking at her watch she had to laugh at herself. It was only ten minutes to one, so how could she expect him to be here yet? She’d walk a little.

  At one she passed by the bench again, but no Giuseppe. Three GIs with flushed faces came down the sidewalk and tried to gather around her. She hurried away.

  At one-fifteen she returned to the empty bench and stared at it very hard, as if by her concentration she could make him materialize. She didn’t want to sit down, she knew there’d be soldiers on either side of her right away. So she just stood there staring hard and wishing he would come.

  Now that lunch-hour was over the park was filling up with GIs. All of them looked at her, some of them whistled at her, still others said “Vieni qua” as they passed, or actually stopped and tried to put their hands on her. She felt suddenly very lonely—why couldn’t he come? Until this moment their meeting hadn’t seemed a very serious thing in her life, but now she wanted it with her whole being. Please come, Giuseppe, she thought. Please come.

  One-thirty on her watch. First she looked up the street, then she looked down the street. She felt hungry—she’d been so anxious to go out and begin buying things that she hadn’t been able to eat very much this morning.

  Mamma mia, here came four more across the street toward her, their eyes determined and their faces all red and sweaty. Nervously she fixed her gaze on the park entrance so that they couldn’t think they were being invited, but then like a persistent swarm of gnats they were all around her anyhow. “Hello, baby.” “Come state, beautiful?” “Did you ever see such big eyes, Bill?” “Vieni con me, hot pants.” “Hey, sweetheart, you wanta mangiare molto?”

  “No,” she said in Italian, “I’m waiting for someone.”

  “Ah, don’t hand us that one, glamor girl. Vieni con noi.” “Amico no arrivare, blondie. Amico morto.” “You want molto lire, we give molto lire.” “We’ll give you molto something else too, baby.”

  She couldn’t help smiling, they pronounced the words so funny and bustled around her so eagerly, as if she were the only girl left in the world. But the smile was a mistake, for then they started positively grabbing her arms and trying to march her off up the street. “No, no,” she said, and became as much like stone as possible, holding her arms in close to her sides and looking frantically around.

  And when she saw him half a block away coming toward her like a vision, she couldn’t have found words to tell him how grateful she was. He came fast, sweating a lot. It was her little personal triumph to be able to say “Arrivederci” very firmly to the soldiers and free herself of them. After all, she had appointments too, she didn’t have to pick up with just anybody.

  “You waited a long time?” he asked. She felt strength and assurance as his strong fingers closed possessively over her forearm—it was as if she had always belonged to him.

  “Yes,” she said. “A long time.”

  “Please excuse me, Maria. I was in a bar with my blond pal, there was no clock. I’m glad you waited for me.”

  “But I said I would wait for you!”

  He smiled at her and squeezed her hand.

  “And who were your friends?” he asked.

  “They weren’t my friends! They wouldn’t go away. They told me they’d give me lots of money, lots to eat, if I’d go with them. But I didn’t want to go with them. And they told me you were dead!”

  Her Giuseppe laughed. He was pleased. She was glad that he was pleased that she had waited.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Shall we eat now?”

  She was hungry all right, four years’ worth, but she didn’t want him to think that that was the only reason she’d waited.

  “I’m not very hungry. I ate a lot this morning.”

  “That’s all right,” he said, unexpectedly speaking English. “You can eat some more.”

  They found a restaurant a few blocks down the hill from the park. Only civilians sat at the tables, they stared at her critically. But she didn’t care about their looks; she sat holding hands with him, pretending they were really in love. When she looked into his face it seemed to her that she was seeing it for the first time. He had a large fleshy face, topped with thick close-cropped brown hair and set with deep eyes that scared her a little when they looked at her. His high cheekbones made his eyes seem slanted, and his full lips were as red as a girl’s. He was large in general, like a bear, and there was something unmilitary in the way his uniform hung on him, as if his body refused to conform to it.

  The Italian waiter’s supercilious look irritated Maria, and when she found that the meat was tough she told him, “This is horsemeat!” The waiter only raised his eyebrows at her and walked away, but a man across the room volunteered, “No, you’re mistaken, my dear. It’s not horsemeat.” When the waiter came back he said, “What do you want, signorina, the best in the land?” “No,” she said right back at him, “I was only feeling sorry for the poor cavallo.”

  Nevertheless she managed to eat every last bite of the cavallo, and two eggs and bread and tomatoes besides. She felt she ate so greedily partly because Giuseppe was here smiling at her, enjoying her appetite.

  Now the waiter came over with the check. Maria picked it up. “Nine hundred lire for horsemeat,” she said to the waiter. He raised his eyebrows again, then looked at Giuseppe, who was counting out the price.

  “You like dees signorina?” he asked in English.

  “Yes,” Giuseppe answered in Italian, “this signorina is the best in all Rome.”

>   And Maria beamed at the foolish waiter: she was so satisfied with Giuseppe’s answer.

  They walked arm in arm toward the Tiber.

  “It’s nice to walk,” said Maria.

  “Like this,” he said, taking her hand.

  “Like engaged people,” Maria said.

  “How do married people do?” Giuseppe asked her.

  She locked her arm in his and leaned her whole weight on him, then laughing up into his face said, “Like this!”

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “we’ll get married.”

  That made her laugh very hard. “Yes!” she laughed. “Tomorrow we’ll get married!”

  “Necessary for you to come home and meet my mother,” he said. “ ‘Mother, this is Maria. Maria, this is my mother.’ ”

  “Yes,” she laughed, keeping her arm locked in his, “tomorrow we’ll get married.”

  They stopped on the bridge and leaned over the concrete railing. Down there girls were swimming, two small boys were rowing a boat. “Look,” Maria said. “All girls. Alone. There are no men for them to swim with.”

  He looked, and it was true.

  “War is no good,” Maria said as they walked on.

  He didn’t seem to hear her for a moment, then he squeezed her hand and said, “No good.”

  She lay in the bed beside her bear Giuseppe, who leaned on his elbow, looking at her. She smiled when he pressed hard against her forehead with his cool hand and kissed” both her eyes.

  “Tomorrow I can see you,” she said.

  “Tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and the day after the day after tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll be here for four days yet.”

  “Oh!” Maria exclaimed, cupping his face with her hands. “I didn’t tell you! Tomorrow night I’m leaving. Tomorrow night my capitano is taking me back to his town with him—it’s near Florence. I forgot to tell you,” she said. And she smiled. “But I’ll be back in a week.”

  “In a week I’ll be gone.”

  “But tomorrow,” she said, alarmed at his serious face and producing a reason for both of them to be glad again, “tomorrow I’ll see you. Tomorrow we’ll be all alone together again.”