I hardly know why we put up with him except that in his cynicism he’s extremely hard to deceive. Oddly enough he was once a poet. True, he wasn’t a good poet, but he attacked his art passionately, and in his youth, much like Rimbaud, he hoped to embrace the unknown through a total derangement of the senses. You know that letter of Rimbaud’s where he says that in order to become a seer and a poet he has been degrading himself “le plus possible”? That was also Malgiolio, and he had terrible experiences—raped in jail when he was seventeen, thrown out of the army for theft—and gradually whatever ability or interest he had in poetry just slipped away. His last poems, again like Rimbaud’s, were completely incomprehensible; but while Rimbaud’s were obscure, Malgiolio’s were just gibberish, an accumulation of words without meaning. Sometimes, however, I feel he really did become a seer, but instead of using his ability as a poet it turned him against poetry and he took that job at the hotel, rising in time to become assistant manager before quitting when he won the lottery. So perhaps we put up with him as a failure and a victim, which flatters our magnanimity. Also, to argue against him is often to argue in favor of goodness, altruism, and virtue; and even if the arguer, like myself, doesn’t quite believe in those things, defending them against Malgiolio makes them seem true for a while.
And then there was my own interest in Pacheco’s story. Why do I find my feelings so difficult to describe? I have always wanted to be a writer, a novelist, but instead I am a journalist. As a matter of fact, I’m not a very good journalist. I tend to be shy and dislike asking people embarrassing questions. So I’m a book reviewer. But I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the sort of novels I want to write and what they would be about and how I want them to affect people. In truth, I doubt that I have much imagination, and sometimes I think the effort needed to invent a plot is beyond me. Oh, I could make up a simple enough plot and fill my book with believable characters, but the trouble with being a book reviewer, as well as being a man of taste, as I tell myself, is that even though I can’t write great literature, I can recognize it. Consequently, I couldn’t stand to write and publish a book, then watch it be pushed aside as trivial. Better to remain silent.
But always I’m keeping an eye out for potential subjects and if a good enough story fell into my lap, then I believe I would begin to write, or at least take notes. As Pacheco spoke of his first encounter with Antonia Puccini, I found myself becoming alert, as if hearing bits of a history that I might use. And so I too was taken up and pressed Pacheco to tell more.
Furthermore, I was interested because Pacheco himself has always interested me. He is someone who makes his own rules and ignores the rules of the world around him. Well, partly we admire that and partly we wish to see him caught. For if he gets away with it and is not punished, then we become fools for pursuing our own little lives and never taking chances. Is any of this true? Am I again deceiving myself? At the moment, however, let it suffice that I thought these to be the sources of my interest.
But perhaps I am saying too much too quickly. We were eating in a large, echo-ridden room lit by candlelight; we had heard part of a peculiar story and wanted to hear more. I didn’t say to myself, Aha, here is the story for my novel. But right away I found myself attentive; my curiosity was aroused. Yet even as I put down these words, I question myself. Who knows what all my reasons were or if I will discover them myself? Although I loved Pacheco, I was also one of those waiting for his punishment. No, no, not waiting. Perhaps just listening with half an ear, believing it something that would inevitably come.
As I say, Pacheco seemed to want to tell his story but he also appeared to be waiting. Beyond that, he seemed to dislike Malgiolio’s pressure. Malgiolio is the sort of person who, if he says the meat has too much salt, you think it has too little. If he says the room is too hot, then you think it cold. You should see his hands, which are small and white with thick fingers, hands which appear to have grown without the benefit of sunlight, more like tubers than hands. And so I believed that a portion of Pacheco’s hesitation was a result of Malgiolio’s eagerness. But in retrospect, I think he was also waiting for a sign from Señora Puccini. Perhaps “sign” is too strong a word. But certainly she knew we had been discussing her and I think Pacheco wanted to see some response, some wrinkle in the wall of her indifference.
When Pacheco at last began his story, it was ostensibly in response to questions asked by Dalakis: “Why couldn’t you have forgotten her? Why couldn’t you have left her alone?” Señora Puccini entered the dining room as Dalakis was still speaking, which made him look embarrassed and lower his head.
Another red wine had come with the veal, I forget what kind, and as Pacheco listened to Dalakis, he tilted his half empty glass, seeing how close the wine could approach the brim without sloshing onto the white tablecloth. Then he abruptly drank off the rest of the glass and sat back in his chair. “Can’t you understand, I couldn’t forget because the hunger was already within me. I would think of how my fingers had brushed that moist silk and everything else would be pushed from my mind.”
And there she was as he spoke—a middle-aged woman in a black dress leaning over the table, replacing the gravy boat with another, picking a yellow blossom off the tablecloth, filling Pacheco’s glass with more wine. We all looked at her but it was as if she were alone in the room.
“I slept very little that night,” Pacheco continued. “I kept thinking of the girl, seeing her face and dark hair. I indulged in the most extreme sexual fantasies. I would remember how I had actually felt her quivering, yet how she had refused to move either toward me or away.”
As Pacheco said these words, Señora Puccini put a few dishes on the cart and wheeled them from the room. The wheels squeaked and the dishes sparkled in the light of fifty candles. When she closed the door, Pacheco paused, and it was here, I think, that he decided to continue his story, to tell everything, for a whole variety of reasons, to tantalize poor Malgiolio, to upset Dalakis, and perhaps even to give me material for a fiction. He began in a rush, leaning forward with his hands on the edge of the table.
“In the morning there was no question but that I had to locate this girl and have her, over-sweep her if you will. Hunger becomes too trivial a word. I wanted to devour her. I expect this strikes you as excessive, so I will describe it as clinically as possible. Of course, I had desired other women and pursued them with a fair amount of success, but this girl, this Puccini creature, occupied my mind as few had done in the past. I say I wanted to over-sweep her; in fact, I was amazed at having been myself over-swept, at having lost myself in my own desire. It seemed as if my self, my ego if you will, had been pushed aside and all that remained was this extreme sexual tension which left me with a rapid heartbeat and a shortness of breath. Well, this was a new experience, and to some degree I was infatuated with the experience itself.
“Although I didn’t know the girl, I had seen her fairly often and I knew where I could learn more about her. My plan was simple: discover her name and address, then find her and confront her. I had enough confidence in my persuasive skills to believe that if I could speak to her, then I would ultimately have my way with her.”
“But what if she didn’t want you?” interrupted Dalakis, leaning toward Pacheco and bumping me in the process. His tie, I noticed, lay across the gravy in his plate.
“But she did want me,” said Pacheco, “or at least she too had felt passion and perhaps even desire. She hadn’t pulled away, she hadn’t actually said no.
“I had a friend, a lawyer in town, who I believed could give me further information about the girl. He was a bachelor like myself and often we had been interested in the same women. Oddly enough, such competition has never bothered me as long as I get what I want. What does it matter who else has had the woman as well? In any case, I recalled that several times when I had seen Antonia, my lawyer friend had also been in attendance. His nickname was Paco and his business consisted of lo
oking after the estates of people who had little or no interest in handling their own affairs. In this business Paco did very well.
“The morning after the concert I was at the door of his office when he arrived at ten. I’m sure I had patients to see but I simply forgot about them. Paco was a portly fellow with a fondness for blue suits and ivory-handled walking sticks. He’s dead now, unfortunately—a boating accident some time after I left the south. He had thick black hair and rosy cheeks that made him look like a schoolboy. On the little finger of his left hand, he always wore a ruby ring.
“He invited me in, obviously curious about what I wanted at such an hour. I tried to appear nonchalant and had worked up a little story about needing his advice about investments. But once in his office, I couldn’t be bothered with pretense and I asked him directly about the girl, saying I had seen her at the concert the previous night.
“I expected him to laugh, since even in the midst of my infatuation it struck me as absurd. But Paco took it quite seriously. He knew of course what I wanted and he dealt with the problem as an engineer might deal with the problem of building a bridge. He had an old-fashioned office, meant to soothe his rich and elderly clients, with a lot of brass and leather, ceiling fans, dark woodwork, and shelf after shelf of leather-bound law books, which he never opened. He poured me a small sherry and told me the girl’s name was Antonia Puccini, that her parents were deceased, that she lived with her aunt at such and such an address, that she taught at a local primary school and had been engaged to a young man, a second cousin, for the past year and had been inseparable from him for several years previously. He also told me that she had no money. Although the aunt appeared wealthy, she had inherited the money from her husband and it would go back to his estate after she was dead. This young man, this second cousin, also had very little money but he had a good position in the city government, worked hard, was ambitious, and everyone predicted a great future for him.
“As Paco told me this he spoke with great sympathy and concern, as if I were about do something which would cause me harm. Yet, in all that he said there were no words inserted to dissuade me from my attempt. He told me the names of Antonia’s friends, what families she knew, where she was likely to be found, what sort of films and books she liked. For a full hour, Paco described her life to me. How she liked this restaurant or liked to walk along the esplanade in the evening. I listened without interrupting. At last he said, ‘For a long time I was infatuated with her. Let me tell you, I had absolutely no success. I did everything I could imagine but nothing made the least dent in her defenses. Admittedly, my ways are not yours, but if I were you I would try to put her out of my mind.’
“‘So you don’t think I can succeed?’ I asked.
“‘She’s very much in love with her fiancé. As long as he is there, you will have trouble.’
“‘And this is why you are warning me?’ I asked. ‘Because of her young man?’
“‘Not just that,’ Paco answered. ‘She never gave me the slightest encouragement and I even had many other women during this period. Despite this, it took me many months to free myself of desire, to be able to push the thought of her from my mind.’
“‘Is she so special?’ I asked.
“‘What do they say? There’s no woman so special as the one you can’t have? Maybe it’s no more than that. But there’s something else, a kind of fire. I feel foolish talking about it. She is like a tensed muscle and she is passionate. But how she is exactly, I do not know, since I was unsuccessful. In any case, I was miserable for a long time, and so I warn you only for that reason.’
“Naturally, even as he warned me, I had no doubt about my inevitable success, and so his warning had little effect. It was only later that I thought of it. Actually, given the way she had let me touch her, I was certain I only had to announce myself and she would give herself to me.”
As Pacheco spoke these last sentences, Señora Puccini reentered the dining room with the cook’s grandson and began clearing the table. I studied her, looking for some response. Although thin, she gave the impression of being a big woman. She was at least my height, only two inches under six feet, and large-breasted, with broad shoulders and solid hips. Certainly she was imposing, both physically and perhaps even in her personality. She paid no attention to Pacheco. Could she be used to his story? And I imagined him repeating it over the years to hundreds of dinner guests. But no, I was sure that this was the first time he had told it. Most likely, had he ever mentioned it to anyone before, then I would have heard rumors already.
As Señora Puccini again began to leave the dining room, Pacheco summoned her over to his chair. She stood slightly behind him and he spoke without turning. “Are you looking out for Justine?”
“She’s in the kitchen.”
“Be careful she doesn’t try to leave the house.” Señora Puccini didn’t answer, and after a moment Pacheco raised his head and spoke again, still without looking at her. “Do you understand me?”
“Or course,” said the woman. Then she continued out of the room.
As the boy started to follow her, Pacheco called to him. “Juan, go up to the roof and see what the city looks like. Can you do that?”
Juan seemed only too glad to get away from his other duties. Grinning broadly, he hurried to the door, skating on the marble as he turned the corner. We sat for a moment sipping our wine. I considered what Pacheco had felt for the young Antonia Puccini and it made me recall my feelings for my young wife and how vacant I had felt after she was gone.
Malgiolio was the first to speak. He had spilled some wine on the tablecloth and I wondered if he was getting a little drunk. “So what happened after you left the lawyer’s office? Did the girl topple into your arms?”
Pacheco put one elbow on the arm of his chair, then rested his chin in his open hand and looked down at the tablecloth. Just when I was sure he wouldn’t say anything, that he wanted to frustrate Malgiolio, he resumed his story.
“I now knew where she worked, a primary school in one of the wealthy suburbs. I drove there and sat in my car and waited. Several hours went by. The school let out, the children left, then the teachers left. I continued to watch the building. As I was just about to give up, Antonia Puccini came down the front steps. It was a warm day. She was wearing a blue dress and white jacket. She carried several books under her arm. How can I describe her? You’re the writer, Batterby. You’ve seen her picture. Tall and beautifully proportioned, she moved with great dignity and sense of purpose, looking neither left nor right. I got out of my car and hurried after her. When she heard me behind her, she turned with an expression of expectation and pleasure. Yet when she saw who it was her face changed. Rather, it closed, because I had no idea what she was thinking. But obviously she thought I was someone else and just as obviously I knew she had recognized me from the night before.
“She waited for me and I asked if I could walk with her. She nodded but didn’t speak, then she turned and continued walking. I walked beside her. ‘Did you enjoy the music last night?’ I asked. Again she nodded, turning slightly toward me but not looking at me. The sidewalk was narrow and occasionally my arm brushed against hers. I had a huge desire to put my arm around her, but I did nothing. For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. All the opening gestures of inviting her for coffee or to dinner seemed inappropriate. Without speaking a word, we had gone past that part of a relationship. At last I decided to tell her what I felt. ‘I want you,’ I told her, ‘I want to make love to you.’ She made no response, simply kept walking, neither faster nor slower. She didn’t turn, didn’t seem nervous; she simply didn’t react. Well, that’s not entirely true; as I had felt her quiver the night before, so I sensed a similar quiver as I walked beside her. I saw and heard nothing, but there was a slight vibration as when a finger lightly touches a string. ‘Did you hear me?’ I asked.
“‘I heard you,’ she answered, but she neither
slowed nor looked at me. ‘I want to make love with you,’ I said, ‘and I know you desire it as well. I want to undress you and lie with you and touch you with my tongue.’ Again she didn’t respond. ‘Did you hear me?’ I asked. There was a slight hesitation, then she said, ‘Yes, I heard you.’
“I took her arm, quite gently. ‘Come with me now,’ I said. She pulled her arm free and kept walking. I continued beside her, but now I touched her, touched her arm, her cheek, touched her hair. ‘Do you remember how I caressed you last night?’ I said, ‘I want to caress you again. I want you in my mouth. I want to be inside you.’ She didn’t answer and after a moment I asked, ‘Did you hear me?’ ‘Yes, I heard you,’ she answered. ‘Then come with me,’ I said. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to.’ Yet even as she spoke she was letting me touch her face and hair. As we walked, I reached out and lightly touched the side of her breast, stroking it. She neither pulled away nor moved toward me, she just kept walking. ‘I want to kiss you,’ I told her. Again she didn’t respond and again I asked if she had heard me and she said that she had. I stepped in front of her, but walked backward so she would have to face me but wouldn’t have to stop. She had large full lips, as moist as fruit. She stared into my face as one might stare at a wall. Yet I could still feel that slight vibration, like the ripples on water when you drop a pebble into a pond. Then I slowed and moved my face toward hers. For the briefest instant, she continued to come toward me, then she turned away and raised a hand between my mouth and hers.
The Two Deaths of Senora Puccini Page 9