I had bought myself a packet of cigarettes, a loaf, a salami sausage and a bottle of vino rosso with the money I had borrowed from Torrchi. I had eaten, and now I was smoking, a glass of wine within reach of my hand.
The time was twenty-seven minutes past eight. After I had left Torrchi I had walked the streets, moving aimlessly, my thoughts busy.
By seven o'clock I had come to no decision, so I returned to my room.
The decision really wasn't a difficult one. I had to make up my mind whether to keep the diamond clip or return it.
It was just my luck it wasn't worth more. If it had been worth the price of a passport I would have been badly tempted to let Torrchi have it. But although it wasn't worth the price of getting out of Italy, it could equip me with a new outfit, and give me enough to live on economically for six months without doing any work.
When I had told Laura Fancino that I hadn't bothered to apply for a police permit to remain in Italy, I had been lying. I hadn't applied because I was wanted by both the Italian police and the American Army Police for something that had happened during the last stages of the war, some six years ago.
So the two hundred and thirty thousand lire that Torrchi had offered me was a temptation. It wouldn't buy a passport, but it would have given me a little more peace of mind and comfort.
I wasn't worrying about that so much as I worried about why she had left the clip. Had she been sorry for me and, believing me dishonest, had left the clip for me to sell so I could make use of the proceeds? Or had she left the clip on the table, certain I would return it and give her another opportunity of seeing me again?
I lay smoking and staring up at the ceiling while I tried to make up my mind what I should do. Finally, I succeeded in making one decision: I wouldn't sell the clip and use the proceeds. Up to now I had managed to keep going without either stealing or taking money from a woman, and I felt it was a matter of pride not to do so now.
Did I want to see her again?
As I lay there in the hot, stuffy little room, I conjured up a picture of her as I had last seen her, standing in the doorway, against the sunlight, and I knew I not only wanted to see her again, but I had to see her again.
I couldn't help it if her husband was crippled and dying. I had been crazy to have talked so smugly about shooting sitting birds. He had had a year of her, and he was no use to her any more, nor was she any use to him. It wasn't as if I were taking anything from him. He just wasn't in the picture anymore.
I swung my legs of the bed and stood up.
The simplest way to settle this thing was to let her decide. She had given me the opportunity of taking her, and I had refused it.
Now it was my turn to give her the opportunity of taking me, and if she turned me down I'd wipe her out of my mind. But I was going to give her the opportunity.
I went down the passage to the telephone booth. It took me a little time to find her number. I found it at last under Bruno Fancino's name.
She answered immediately as if she had been sitting by the telephone, waiting for me to ring.
"Who is it?" she asked, speaking softly as if she were afraid of being overheard.
I tried to imagine the room in which she was sitting. I wondered how far away from her her husband was laying.
"This is David," I said, also speaking quietly.
"Oh! How clever of you to find my number."
"I have your diamond clip."
"My—what?"
"Your diamond clip."
"But how can you? It's in my handbag."
I opened the booth door a trifle. It was very hot in the booth, and I was having difficulty in breathing.
"You left it on the table. I found it just after you had gone."
"How dreadful of me! I haven't even missed it."
"What shall I do?" I asked. "I could post it to you or I could bring it to you. Just whatever you say."
There was a long pause. I could hear her breathing.
"Hello?" I said. "Are you still there?"
"Of course. I was thinking. Will you do something for me?"
"What is it?"
"Will you put the receiver against your heart for a moment?"
"That's one thing I won't do," I said, not wanting her to know how violently my heart was hammering against my ribs, and yet knowing she knew it already.
"Would that be called shooting a sitting bird?"
"It would, and talking about sitting birds, I've changed my attitude towards them. In the future, I'm going to be like you— I'm going to shoot them sitting or flying."
"Is that sporting?"
"I don't give a damn."
"Then I think the clip is too valuable to risk sending through the post, don't you?"
"It is your clip and your risk. You must decide," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
"I don't think it had better go through the post."
"Then I will bring it to you."
"Oh, no. I don't want you to do that. Where do you live?"
"I have a room on the ground floor of 23 Via Carnini. It is immediately behind the Scala."
"I will come and get the clip tomorrow, David; about seven."
"It's not much of a place," I said, huskily, "but you must please yourself."
"Tomorrow evening at seven," she said. "Good night, David."
"Good night," I said.
chapter two
Around four-thirty on Friday afternoon I completed a tour of the Duomo with two elderly Americans. They were nice people, and they were sincere in their thanks. They gave me three thousand lire, which was too much for the time I had given them.
When they had driven away in their car, Torrchi came out of the shadows and gave me a little nudge with his elbow.
"I am glad to see business is brisk, signor David," he said, smiling happily. "These last two days have been very fortunate for you."
"I know it," I said, and handed him a five-hundred lira note.
"Thank you for the loan. It brought me luck."
"Have you made up your mind about the clip?" he asked, slipping the note in his pocket. "I could have the money here in an hour."
"I'm not selling it. It doesn't belong to me. I shall return it."
Torrchi pursed his lips.
"As you well know, I love you like a brother, signor David," he said; "you will forgive me, therefore, if I say there is no woman on earth who is worth two hundred and thirty thousand lire. I don't care who she is, she just isn't worth that amount of money."
"I don't see why you should talk about women and the clip in the same breath."
"Excuse me, but I think you do. I saw what happened between the signora and yourself when you imagined you were alone together in the Duomo. That was natural and understandable. A woman as beautiful as she is is made for love. But if you sold me the clip, you could use the money to great advantage. And if you returned the clip to her, you will merely gain her gratitude, and possibly something more, but the loss of the money compared with what she can offer you is a very poor bargain. Please be sensible about this, signor David."
"Go away," I said, laughing at him, "I'm not giving you the clip."
"Now wait, don't let's be hasty," Torrchi said anxiously. "This is what I will do. I will give you two hundred and fifty thousand lire, and you can also have Simona. That is a very great bargain indeed. Simona is very accomplished. She is a great exponent of the art of love. It is true her temper is a little uncertain, but you must expect fire if you want passion. Beat her regularly, and she will please you very much. Isn't this a great bargain that I offer you?"
"It is a wonderful bargain, but I am not selling the clip. If it belonged to me I wouldn't hesitate, but it doesn't belong to me, and that ends the matter."
Torrchi looked sorrowfully at me.
"I fear the signora has made a very great impression on you. That is bad. No man should become infatuated with a woman."
"That ends the matter, Torrchi."
"I think y
ou will live to regret your decision," he said, shrugging his fat shoulders. "A man who puts a woman before money invites disaster. I shall pray for you."
"Oh, go to hell!" I said, losing patience. I was suddenly angry because he was putting into words what my mind had been telling me ever since I had called her on the telephone.
"I shall make Simona pray for you too," Torrchi said with quiet dignity, and walked away across the Piazza, his head bowed and a dejected stoop to his shoulders.
A pot of copper-coloured begonias stood on my table in the window. The Botticelli reproduction had been stowed away under the bed. I had borrowed a gay blue and red tablecloth from Filippo, a blue silk bedspread from Umberto, and a very good Persian rug from Giuseppe.
I scarcely recognized the room. Admittedly the wallpaper was still hideous, but the sordidness of the room had been toned down, and it was now something I need not be ashamed of.
I had bought two bottles of Sassella, and had persuaded Piero to make me a dozen sandwiches with assorted fillings. He had also thoughtfully supplied two glasses and two plates and at the last moment had insisted on giving me a half-bottle of cognac which he said would complete the meal, and therefore I must have it.
I had had my suit pressed and sponged, and I had bought a pair of secondhand shoes by pawning my wristwatch. There was nothing else I had to do except wait. By peering out of the window and craning my neck I could see the church clock at the end of the street. It showed five minutes to seven o'clock.
I lit a cigarette, and for the sixth time I rearranged the bottles on the table and went over to smooth a crease in the bedspread.
My mouth was dry; my heart was beating rapidly, and I was a little breathless. For three days now she had been haunting my mind, and now she was within reach my feelings almost suffocated me.
I forced myself to sit in the armchair while I smoked the cigarette. I smoked it so fiercely that it burned my tongue, and I stubbed it out angrily before it was finished.
As I got up to get another cigarette I heard a knock on the front door. For a brief second I stood very still, my hands clenched, holding my breath, then I opened my door and went quickly down the passage to the front door.
Laura Fancino was standing on the pavement, looking up at me. She was wearing a severe blue linen frock, a big straw hat that partially hid her face and the dark green sunglasses. She stood looking at me, her face expressionless, her eyes invisible, and her hands clasped over her handbag, which she held in front of her.
"Hello, David," she said. "Aren't I punctual?"
"Yes; wonderfully punctual," I said, my voice husky. "Won't you come in?"
I stood aside, and she passed me.
"It's just here," I said, and pushed my bedroom door open.
"It's not much, I'm afraid."
She walked into the room and stood, looking round, then she took of her sunglasses and turned to smile at me.
"You've been making it look nice, haven't you?"
"My friends have been generous." I closed the door. It was only then that I realized how very small the room was. "Did you have trouble finding me?"
"Oh, no. At one time I used to go to the Scala every week."
She took of her hat and put it on top of my chest-of-drawers together with her handbag. Then she moved over to the mirror above the fireplace and loosened her hair by lifting it a little with her white, slim fingers.
I stood looking at her unable to believe she was actually here.
"When the wind is in the right direction I can lie here and listen to the music," I said.
She turned, smiling.
"Of course, cathedrals and music go together, don't they? How is the book coming on?"
"I haven't done anything to it recently. Sometimes I don't touch it for weeks."
I knew I was being dreadfully stiff and formal, but I couldn't help myself. Having her here, so close to me, made me suddenly nervous and embarrassed.
"Is that the manuscript?" She moved to the table. "May I look at it?"
"If you want to."
She opened the manuscript at random and studied a page of closely written words.
"What good handwriting you have," she said. "It's so neat, and there's so much of it."
"It isn't even half done."
"No wonder it is taking you so long."
There was a long pause. The silence pressed in on me. I had a sudden feeling that this meeting wasn't going to be a success.
She made me so nervous that I began to wish she hadn't come.
"Perhaps you would like a sandwich," I said, knowing how hopelessly boorish I sounded. "I don't know if you are hungry."
She closed the manuscript and turned. The look in her eyes sent my blood hammering in my temples.
"Hungry?" she said. "Yes, I'm hungry, David. I've been hungry for the past four years."
The church clock was striking nine when she made a sudden movement and pulled away from me.
"I must go, David," she said. "I must be back by eleven."
"Stay a little longer. Couldn't you telephone?"
"No. I said I would be back by eleven."
She was standing at the foot of the bed now. I could just see her in the dim light as she began to dress. Her movements were very quick.
As I made to get up she said: "Don't move, darling. Please stay where you are. There really is no room for the two of us."
"How will you get back?" I asked.
"I left my car at the park up the road. I can get back in an hour and a half if I hurry."
"You'll be careful?"
She laughed.
"Am I so precious to you now, David?"
I felt my throat thicken.
"Yes; more precious than anyone who has ever come into my life."
"I'm glad. Are you sorry this has happened?"
"No; are you?"
"A little. There are always complications and heartaches when one finds a new love."
"Yes, but there are compensations."
She smoothed down her dress over her hips, then turned and put on her hat and picked up her handbag.
"Stay there, David, I can find my way out."
"This is crazy," I said, and laughed. "You haven't eaten anything, and I had it all ready."
She came and sat on the bed.
"But I'm not hungry now, darling," she said, and leaned over me, her hands passing over my bare chest. "Goodbye, David."
For a long moment her mouth covered mine, then she pushed me back gently and stood up.
"When will you come again?" I asked, holding her hand.
"Do you want me to come again?"
"Of course, as often as you can."
"I don't know. Perhaps next week. I'll come when I can get away."
"Now, wait," I said, sitting up. "You can't go like this. You must be more definite, Laura. What about Monday?"
"It's the nurse's day of on Monday."
"Then Tuesday?"
"I read to him on Tuesday."
"Then—when?"
"I don't know. It wasn't easy to come today. You see, David, I've been living like a hermit for four years. I can't suddenly leave the villa without some very good excuse. I can't possibly stay out as late as this very often."
"But, damn it! What's going to happen to me? We've got to meet soon. Can't you come in the afternoon? It's quiet here between two and five. Come next Wednesday."
"I'll try, David, but I can't promise. Have you forgotten what you said?"
"What did I say?"
"You told me not to be so sure he wouldn't find out. I remember every word you said. 'Some people are very sensitive to atmosphere,' you told me. 'He might catch on very quickly. You would probably give yourself away. It wouldn't be very pleasant for him, would it?'"
"Why do you remind me of that?" I said sharply. "Do you want to underline my rottenness?"
"Don't be stupid, David. There's nothing rotten about two people falling in love. I am just trying to show you we must be very
careful if we are to avoid hurting him. Can't you see that?"
"Then I shall have to wait until you can come?"
"There is nothing else to do. Will you try to remember that all the time we are not seeing each other I shall be thinking of you?"
She touched my face with her hand. "Perhaps these two short hours have meant much more to me than to you." She opened her handbag and took out a slip of paper. "What is your telephone number?"
I gave it to her.
"I'll ring you when I can come. And listen, David, please don't ring me. It's not safe. There is an extension in his room and the nurse is very inquisitive. She might listen in. Will you promise me you won't ring?"
"I won't ring. But you will try and make it soon?"
"Of course. And now I must fly. Goodbye, darling."
"Wait! You're forgetting the clip." I swung of the bed and went to a drawer in the table and got it. "It would have been damned funny if you had forgotten it again."
She took it from me and dropped it into her handbag.
"Kiss me, David."
I caught her in my arms and crushed my mouth down on hers.
I held her like that for a long moment, then she broke free, gasping a little.
"Oh, darling, you're a wonderful lover," she said. "How I wish I could stay a little longer! Think of me, David," and she slipped from my grasp, opened the bedroom door and ran down the passage.
Then began the days of waiting.
I didn't expect to hear from her until Monday, so Saturday and Sunday passed of fairly well. I worked both days, and I was lucky to land a party of ten on Sunday who hired me for the day to take them in two cars to the high spots of Milan. I picked up five thousand lire that day.
When I woke on Monday I told myself this was the day she would ring me. She would tell me she would be able to come either on Thursday or Friday, and I would have something to look forward to all the week.
Then I realized she hadn't said when she would ring. Suppose she rang when I was out? My landlady was an old soak, and would never remember a message; she might not even answer the telephone.
This was an unexpected setback, and alarmed me. After thinking about it, I decided she wouldn't ring until after ten o'clock. I could go out and get some food and then wait in until she did ring. I had five thousand lire in hand so I didn't have to go to work. In fact, I rather looked forward to remaining in my room waiting for her to ring: each minute would be a minute of intense excitement.
1952 - The Wary Transgressor Page 3