The Wolf That Fed Us

by Robert Lowry

  “Just like that?” Joe asked.

  “Just like that,” Burt said. “He stood there swaying in front of her, saying ‘I ain’t got no time to waste on you, baby, either you do or you don’t, so make up your mind.’ There were some burnt-up Italians in the place, but they didn’t do anything. The bartender told her, ‘Why don’t you slap him?’ But she didn’t.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She was pretty terrific. She just smiled—just sat there and smiled and didn’t say a word and pretty soon his buddies dragged him out.”

  They’d gone all the way through the blacked-out city to Piazza Colonna when Joe said, “Maybe we oughta go back. The Valsettis might be home by now.”

  They missed their bridge by one and walked along beside the Tiber, where the trees held out even the light of the sky. So that by the time they saw the three women they were face to face and the big blonde was laughing, “Oh baby, I lawv you,” and had a firm grip on Joe’s pants.

  He grabbed her hand. “Grazie, no,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They pushed through the three women and reached the bridge.

  “Let’s run, for Christ’s sake.”

  They ran across the bridge. When they stopped on the other side, Burt was laughing.

  “A man’s gotta run from it, here,” Burt said. “A man’s gotta protect himself because a man ain’t safe.”

  “I hope the Valsettis are home,” Joe said. “I feel like throwing up.”

  VIII. SIGNORA CARLA VALSETTI

  Standing before the mirror in her bedroom, Signora Carla Valsetti opened her eyes very wide and made her mouth into a small red circle. Then she narrowed her eyes and smiled, her gold tooth flashing. Then she sobered her face and stared at it. She wasn’t so old, she decided, leaning close to the mirror and peering at the crow’s-feet around her eyes. Only thirty-eight. And she was much slimmer than she’d been five years ago, before the war. She was always hungry now, but her figure had certainly improved.

  She stepped back, still regarding herself. Well, she wasn’t too skinny. She placed her hands under her big breasts—they were still firmer than many girls ever had. And men liked a woman who was well-built. What kind of women, she wondered, did the two Americani like? The ones you saw in magazines and movies were so thin, so tall. How could they get excited over such women?

  Whenever she thought about the two Americani, something grew warm inside her. Ever since Giorgio had introduced them to her five days ago she’d been almost too excited to do her housework. She’d never rented the spare bedroom to soldiers before; even the Germans hadn’t stayed there. The Germans hadn’t been interested in anything except stealing—they’d taken her fur coat, all the woolen clothing in the apartment, and most of the food. What a different place the city was now that the Americani were here! Everywhere girls were walking with soldiers and having a good time. She’d even seen Signora Mazzi in Apartment 19 come home last week followed by a soldier—not that she blamed her; her husband was in the army. Why wasn’t Giorgio in the army? If he were, then she could have some fun too; she was still young enough. But Giorgio was too old to be in the army, fifteen years older than she, too old for anything. . . .

  That Giuseppe was the one, though—the stout dark soldier. He’d brought two women here already, and each of them in broad daylight. She’d never forget how he’d surprised her by introducing the little blonde. “My friend, Maria Consorti,” he’d said, just as if it were nothing at all in his young life to bring a prostitute home. Maddalena and she had certainly laughed enough about it. Poor Maddalena, Carla thought, she wants a man so badly. She hadn’t seen her husband in three years—he was probably dead. Now that she thought about it, it had really been Maddalena who’d started her plotting about the two Americani.

  She turned from the mirror and began to straighten the bed. Tonight we’ll see, she thought. Tonight we’ll see what the Americani like.

  And she started humming a little tune—she felt so satisfied with the way she’d gotten rid of Giorgio by sending him out of town. On the other hand they really did need fruits and vegetables: you couldn’t buy them in Rome except for a fortune. He’d be gone until tomorrow morning, so tonight—well, tonight she and her friend Maddalena were going to take in a movie, drink a little wine, and then come home and talk to the two Americani. The two Americani would be here, all right, and they’d be here without women. She’d lock the door and they’d have to wait until Maddalena and she returned.

  Her blood sang in her chest, it was the first adventure she’d had in ages . . . since the time six years ago when Giorgio’s younger brother had come to stay with them and Giorgio had gone off to work in the morning. Now there were no such opportunities—Giorgio never went off to work, he was always around the apartment. They had to live on their dab of savings, plus the little he made from reselling the sugar and coffee and bacon he bought from soldiers.

  Who but she would have thought of the brilliant idea of sending him out of town to get the fruits and vegetables? she asked herself, humming away and smoothing the creases in the bedspread. And tonight her chaperon Maddalena and she would see. They’d find out tonight what kind of women the Americani went for.

  It was after four when Carla Valsetti answered the door for Maddalena. Both began to giggle immediately—both feeling like sixteen-year-olds who are going out with dates for the first time.

  “Come in, husband!” Carla laughed. “Won’t you sit down, husband? You’ve got to watch me very carefully, husband, or I’ll slip off and make a cuckold of you!”

  Carla washed, brushed her teeth, plucked her eyebrows, took the curlers out of her hair and set it carefully, powdered, then put on her best summer dress, a bright red-and-yellow print, and her best shoes. As a final touch she added a pair of red-and-yellow earrings which she’d bought yesterday when she was planning this holiday. Looking at her image in the mirror, she assured herself that she wasn’t so old after all. I have a better figure right now than many girls ever have, she decided.

  She surely did glisten beside Maddalena, who was five years younger than Signora Valsetti, but very dark. Maddalena had large dark eyes, accented underneath by black circles caused by a liver disturbance, and thick dark lips. Her broad forehead and high cheekbones were those of a Sicilian peasant, and her sturdy body was built for work and bambini.

  “The Americani haven’t been in all day?” Maddalena asked.

  “Not since this morning. Giuseppe said they were going to visit the Vatican, but they haven’t come back.”

  When they were standing in the hall and Maddalena saw Carla locking the door, she asked, “But how will they get in if you lock it?”

  Carla smiled at her wisely. “They’ll just have to wait for us, I’m afraid—poor dears.”

  It was almost ten when they started back to the apartment. Giggling about everything all the way, they felt set up with the wine they’d drunk and kept making cracks to each other about “our Americani.” The movie had starred Humphrey Bogart as a Chicago gangster—he’d given them a real kick by treating his women as roughly as his enemies. Giuseppe had mentioned coming from Chicago, Carla remembered. This haloed him with new romance in her eyes.

  The apartment seemed very quiet. They sat in the living room and drank more wine, neither saying anything, both listening for footsteps. They’d downed three glasses before the rap on the door came—and their eyes met. Doubling up, they choked with their giggles. But finally Carla got herself under control and putting her finger to her lips marched to the door. “Buona sera, Signora Valsetti,” the two soldiers said almost in unison.

  “Buona sera, Giuseppe—and Burt,” she answered, beaming.

  Their four eyes looked first at her, then past her to Maddalena gazing out at them with a drunken gleam in her eye. Carla led them into the living room.

  “Won’t you have a glass of wine with us?” she asked.

  They looked soberly from her face to Maddalena’s face and back aga
in. Finally Giuseppe got out a rather weak, “Si . . . grazie,” and Carla went into the kitchen and brought back two more glasses.

  While she was pouring their drinks she felt too stuffed with laughter to look at Maddalena, but afterward as she was sitting down she couldn’t avoid Maddalena’s crazy eye and the two were off again, rocking in their chairs, convulsed. It was Maddalena this time, tears streaming down her dark face, who finally recovered enough to point a finger at Carla and scream, “I’m . . . I’m her . . . husband . . . tonight!”

  The two Americani sat down at this. They both took long drinks and their faces began to loosen a little too.

  Carla took Giuseppe’s hand. “You see, amico mio, my husband’s out of town and won’t be back till tomorrow—so Maddalena is substituting for him. My chaperon!” But it was too much, there was Maddalena’s crazy eye again and they were both choking with laughter. And the two Americani, after tilting their glasses and finishing off their drinks quick, were joining in a little.

  “Bis,” Maddalena said, pouring another round.

  The two Americani were able to see the joke of Maddalena, Carla’s husband, more clearly by the end of their second glass. And during the third round, Maddalena sat up close to Burt and pretended to find out about all his love affairs by reading his palm, and Carla ran into her bedroom and brought back pictures of herself at sixteen and eighteen to show to Giuseppe. The fourth round finished off the bottle, so Carla stood on a chair and brought another down from the closet where Giorgio had hidden it. When she hopped to the floor she almost fell over from dizziness, but Giuseppe steadied her. Seeing her hand go up to his head and run through his thick hair, she began to giggle—she’d done that!

  “Girls!” she laughed, sitting down beside him. “You brought girls up here, didn’t you!” Noting his blush, she threw back her head and laughed still harder. “Maddalena!” she called. “Here’s an Americano who blushes when you mention girls!”

  “Oh, these Americani are scared of the Roman ladies!” Maddalena shouted back, and Carla almost fell off her chair, she thought that so funny.

  Now with the second bottle Carla was playing the game of keeping the glasses always filled. It was gone in what seemed like a moment and here they were on a third. But before they’d drunk it halfway down Maddalena stood up very straight and announced that she was hungry. So Carla, wavering a little, stood up as straight as she could and announced that she was hungry too.

  The two Americani, whose faces were quite red by now, got the idea and led the way into their room. They opened their duffel bags dutifully and brought out more chocolate bars than Carla had seen in five years. Maddalena and she began to cram them into their mouths as fast as they could, giggling and talking with their mouths full. She ate so many that at one point she thought she was going to be sick—then she recovered and crammed in another.

  But Maddalena had eaten all she could hold; she was looking at her watch. “Madonna mia!” she exclaimed. “It’s two o’clock!”

  Everybody looked at everybody else, all wondering what significance the hour two o’clock could hold for them.

  Maddalena pointed to Giuseppe’s bed and said, “There’s a bed and here’s a bed—room enough for the four of us!”

  Carla found herself nodding and smiling, and the two Americani, though looking confused, were smiling too. Carla stretched and yawned elaborately and Maddalena did likewise. The two Americani, bleary-eyed, stared at each other drunkenly, then stared back at them.

  “I have a better idea!” Carla announced. “Let’s all go and sleep in my big bed!”

  She grabbed Giuseppe’s hand and Maddalena grabbed Burt’s hand. Out through the messy living room they led their prizes, into the front bedroom.

  “Lights out!” Carla said. Before they knew where they were, she’d turned the switch.

  Someone pounding on the door! Carla sat up, her blood standing still. It was morning—light streamed through the window, blurred noises floated up from the street. God save us all, she mumbled wildly, and pulled herself out from under Giuseppe’s heavy leg. Slipping into her wrapper, she noted with fearful amazement those three peacefully-sleeping faces there on the bed.

  But of course I dreamt the knock, she thought as she stood in the foyer. In the first place it couldn’t possibly be noon yet and—

  The knock came again.

  “Who is it?” she called, her voice cracking.

  “Giorgio.”

  Her heart fell like an elevator out of control. “One moment, dear!” she called hoarsely and rushed back into the bedroom, where she pounded indiscriminately on the three bodies till their eyes opened and gazed stupidly at her.

  “My husband! My husband!”

  Maddalena was out of bed like a flash and then all four were darting around the room, gathering up the confused Americani’s shoes and socks and trousers and shirts and dog-tags.

  “Go! Go!” Carla whispered, pushing the two overladen soldiers out through the foyer.

  When she heard their bedroom door close behind them, she set her face in a smile and unbolted the apartment door.

  “Good morning, dear.”

  Old Giorgio trudged in with his covered baskets. “Rain,” he was mumbling. “Nothing but rain.” He set them on the kitchen floor. “What a night! What a train!”

  Carla couldn’t answer: her jaws were clamped tight together to keep her teeth from chattering. But as she watched him take off his coat and brush the water from his hat, it suddenly dawned on her: he knew nothing! And the longer she gazed into his simple face, the surer she was that he’d never suspect a thing. A great happiness enveloped her. She’d had an adventure, a real adventure—and a joke too! She’d played a marvelous joke on him for being so old and making her life so dull; though he’d never get to enjoy it with her.

  “Yes,” she said, “it was a terrible night.” She lit the stove and poured water into a pan for coffee. “The rain pounded so hard I couldn’t sleep.” She hummed a little tune as she unpacked the baskets, commenting now and then on the fruits and vegetables he’d brought, asking prices and finding some of them wonderfully cheap.

  But old Giorgio was forgetting to answer. He yawned, stretching his arms above his head. “What a night!” he said for the tenth time. “I’m going to bed.”

  Carla was expecting that. “I have your coffee almost ready,” she said quickly. “Wait here and have a cup while I go in and straighten things.” She was so relieved when he sat down that she said to him kindly, “The bed ought to be nice and warm for you. Maddalena and I just got up ourselves.”

  IX. PFC JOE HAMMOND

  They slept till two o’clock in the afternoon, and when they awoke they didn’t talk.

  Burt lay on his bed smoking a cigarette and staring at the ceiling while Joe gave himself a head-to-foot sponge-bath at the basin. Afterward Joe stood looking at his big face in the mirror, noting the bloodshot eyes. This is the face that came to Rome on furlough, he thought. I brought this face all the way up here from San Cialo on a GI truck, but I’d never recognize it as the same one now.

  He looked at his hair, his ears, his nose, and finally his mouth. A full red sensual mouth, the lips well-defined, the underlip large, the corners turned up a little. This is the mouth, he thought, that came to Rome to kiss several women and help the rest of Pfc Joe Hammond, U. S. Army, remember that it’s alive.

  He started drying himself.

  So I’m alive, he thought. Alive like a man who’s just seen eight movies, one right after the other, and who comes out feeling like eight different people, all heroes, but none of them himself.

  There was Burt over there gazing at the ceiling. He wondered whether Burt still felt slightly married after what had happened here last night. Good old Burto—he’d been doing so well too.

  He put on his socks, then his shoes.

  “How does the Eternal City look to you so early in the morning?” he asked.

  Burt took several puffs on his cigarette before he
knocked off the ash and said, “I feel like I’ve just spent twenty-four hours on the roller-coaster.”

  “We’ll go out and eat some eggs,” Joe said. “You’ll feel better.”

  Burt got up and began to wash. Joe noticed that he looked at his face in the mirror too.

  “I need more than eggs,” Burt said. “I need my wife.”

  “I feel like I need my wife too,” Joe said. “Only I haven’t got one.”

  “I figured you had about four wives in the last four days, all told,” Burt said.

  Joe took a package of cigarettes from his barracks bag and opened it. He felt rotten. “Last night,” he said, gazing at the carpet. “Christ, we must have been crazy. I didn’t want anything like that—anything else but. Even while I was doing it I didn’t want it.”

  “I know how you feel, amico, but we did it anyhow, didn’t we?”

  “We were drunk.”

  “Right. You couldn’t have found a more descriptive word. Did you hear Signora Valsetti singing away this morning while she did her housework?”

  “She probably had a good time,” Joe said. “I wouldn’t know, I can’t remember much.”

  Burt came over and looked at him. “What the hell’s wrong with you, boy? You sound like you’ve suddenly grown a conscience. How about those other three girls—you weren’t drunk then, were you?”

  “No,” Joe said, “I wasn’t drunk then.”

  “And now that we’re on the subject, how about telling me the real story about the one you picked up last night?”

  Joe played with the Venetian blind. He closed his eyes and thought of the slender sad girl from Livorno, remembering what they’d found in the dark café and how they’d walked clutching hands on the street, hurrying against the time-schedule of their lives to be together.

  “Her name was Gianna,” Joe said. “All the restaurants were closed so we came up here and the goddamn door was locked. She went home to eat—she said she’d come back. Maybe the rain stopped her.”