The Two Deaths of Senora Puccini

by Stephen Dobyns

  “Yes, but what about those people over there?” Dalakis raised himself so his head just poked above the balustrade.

  “Maybe no one was home,” I suggested. Dalakis spoke loudly but I didn’t think his voice could be heard over the shouting in the street.

  “But why are they doing it? Don’t they realize that they are government soldiers? How can they behave so badly?”

  There was nothing to say to that. Most soldiers come from the poorer classes and the ones stationed in the city were usually country boys who viewed the general citizenry with suspicion. Pieces of furniture were still being thrown from the windows of the house down the street and the fire continued to burn merrily. I glanced at Dalakis. The light from the fire shone on his face. He looked shocked, indignant, and close to tears.

  “Make sure you stay down,” I told him. “Don’t let them see you.

  Dalakis turned, heaved himself around, and sat down with his back to the balustrade. I knew he had decided his main duty was to talk to me, that the city could wait, and I dreaded his words.

  He spoke in a rush. “I came to tell you I’d always known your wife wasn’t dead, but that I didn’t care. I understand completely why you did what you did.”

  “What do you mean?” I wanted neither Dalakis’s sympathy nor his understanding.

  “Your wife had written to my wife. I knew she had gone to Europe and that both our wives had had affairs with Pacheco. I knew that we suffered from the same condition.”

  “No,” I said, moving away a little. Dalakis’s big shoes kept touching my legs and it irritated me. “Your wife left you and mine I drove from the house.”

  “You drove her away?” asked Dalakis, surprised.

  “I wanted nothing to do with her.”

  “But didn’t you love her? I mean, many women were involved with Pacheco. He never stayed with them. You could have gotten her back again.”

  Dalakis’s tone of voice was pathetic.

  “Are you serious?” I asked. “She was lucky I didn’t kill her. Why should I stay with her after something like that? We’d been married six months and their affair had been going on for some time. You think I should have taken her back into my bed? I’m only sorry I didn’t do her more damage than I did.”

  Dalakis puffed out his cheeks, then exhaled slowly. He didn’t look at me but stared into the dark bathroom. “We’re very different,” he said. “Even though Pacheco’s affair with my wife had nothing to do with her leaving me, I would have forgiven her anything. She had slept with Pacheco and maybe other men as well, yet given the choice between being with her or not being with her, well, there was nothing I wouldn’t have done to stay with her. I suppose you think that’s weak of me. But when I think of those years without her, years that I’ve yearned for her, then I think my humiliation would have meant nothing. In a way, I am like Malgiolio. He chose humiliation and receives a regular dose of it. I would have chosen humiliation but was turned down. I even went to my wife after she had left me. I told her I didn’t care what she’d done and that if she returned to me I would let her have all the men she wanted. But she didn’t want men, or rather she was in love and wanted only one man. So what could I do?”

  Dalakis’s story was ugly to me. No matter how much I had loved my wife or still loved my wife, I have never regretted driving her from my house. Dalakis sat without looking at me, his legs stuck out in front of him and his great shoes resting on the bathroom floor. I could think of nothing kind to say to him, nothing that wouldn’t mock his weakness. Behind me I heard the approach of a loud motor and I turned to look.

  A military truck with soldiers hanging off its sides was making its way down the street to my right. Pausing by the fire, it blared its horn at the men in the street and then edged forward again. The truck was painted a camouflage green and its back was open. Soldiers were pointing to something inside and some were laughing. Captain Quatrone was hanging onto the back and he too had a big grin on his face. The truck passed under the balcony roaring its engine, then came to a stop by the dead horse, unable to pass between the carcass and a jeep parked on the other side. The driver again blared the horn as if expecting the horse to get up and trot off. I continued to watch, wondering what they would do. Quatrone shouted something and the soldiers jumped off the truck, ran to the horse, and began pulling it toward our side of the street—about three men on each foot and one pulling the tail. The horse moved slightly. The men shouted at each other and continued to pull, cursing and yelling. I wouldn’t know whether to call it a scene horrible in its comedy or comic in its horror. All of a sudden Dalakis leaned over the balustrade and pointed down at the back of the truck.

  “It’s Schwab!” he said.

  Looking, I saw that he was right. Schwab lay in the back of the truck, lay on his side with his knees bent and feet apart. His chin was thrust up. His elbows were also bent with one arm before him and one behind. He appeared to be running, as if he had been shot while running and the bullet had frozen him. It was obvious he was dead. Blood smeared his blue tunic and surrounded him in a dark puddle. His large blond face wore an expression of intense astonishment.

  “What happened to him?” asked Dalakis, still leaning over the balustrade.

  How irritating of Dalakis that he should think I would know. “He’s dead,” I said. “He was shot.” At that moment, the soldiers succeeded in dragging the horse into the gutter and the truck surged forward. Quatrone cheered them on, waving a pistol over his head, and Schwab disappeared from view.

  “But why?” Dalakis persisted. “Why should they hurt him?”

  “My dear Carl, how can you expect me know that?”

  “It must have been that captain, that Quatrone fellow.”

  Dalakis continued to lean over the balustrade until, unfortunately, he was spotted by the soldiers. Several began shouting and one pointed a rifle. Dalakis didn’t notice but kept staring after the departing truck. I grabbed his belt and pulled so sharply that he toppled back into the bathroom like a sack of potatoes and his head bumped against the floor. At that very instant, there was a burst of gunfire and bullets smashed against the wall above the doorway, sending down a little shower of cement and debris. In truth, I think the soldiers were only trying to frighten us and in that they succeeded. Both of us scurried back into the dark bathroom and I slammed the door. We crouched together on the tiles with our backs against the tub and our hearts beating frantically. Well, I can’t swear to Dalakis’s heart, but mine felt ready to burst from my chest.

  “Schwab’s dead,” Dalakis persisted.

  Although I expected no thanks for saving Dalakis’s life, I at least would have liked the action recognized. As for Schwab, I too was shocked. Two hours earlier, he had been large, boisterous, and full of life; now he was so many pounds of dead flesh. Even so, I had few tears to expend upon him. Hadn’t I often been the victim of his bullying and mockery? And I found myself thinking that now one more person who knew about my wife was gone. And Kress too, most likely. Death had taken them both.

  “Why should they have killed him?” Dalakis repeated. “It must have been Quatrone.”

  “Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t,” I said, becoming angry. “Why do you keep asking me? Don’t you know you were almost shot as well?”

  “But Schwab . . .”

  “Yes, yes, he’s dead. Was he a great friend of yours? You never liked him and you know it.” I could hardly see Dalakis in the dark, just a great bulky shape.

  “I loved him. I’ve known him all my life.”

  But I didn’t have the energy to discuss the intricacies of loving and liking. The trouble with sentimental people is they are always searching for opportunities to exercise their sentimentality. Standing up, I said, “We’d better get back downstairs.”

  Dalakis got to his feet and followed me down the hall to the stairs. “This is a terrible night. Schwab was right; ou
r world will be irreversibly changed. Now both he and Kress are gone. How small our group is getting.”

  —

  We made our way down the stairs between the candles, which were leaving puddles of white wax on the red carpet. There were only seven soldiers in the downstairs hall and five were lying on stretchers. The other two were playing some game with dice on the marble bench under the tapestry. They looked up at us as we walked to the library, and one, just to frighten us, made a growling noise deep in his throat. Several medics stood by the open front door looking out at the street.

  Dalakis hurried into the library in front of me. Pacheco was sitting on the couch and Malgiolio was pouring himself another brandy. They didn’t appear to be talking.

  “Schwab is dead,” said Dalakis breathlessly. “We saw his body in the back of a truck.”

  Both appeared startled. “You’re not serious,” said Malgiolio, and then touched his hair as if Dalakis’s announcement might have somehow disturbed his design of thinning black strands. Pacheco looked at me as if to ask if it were really true and I nodded.

  “It was Schwab, all right,” said Dalakis, walking to the mantel. “He was lying in his own blood. They must have shot him.”

  “Who would have shot him?” demanded Malgiolio. “Schwab’s too powerful, too clever. Besides, he had an armored car. I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

  “We’re not mistaken,” I said, sitting down in the armchair near Pacheco. “Captain Quatrone was riding on the back. Carl has decided that he was responsible for the whole thing.”

  “But he may have been,” said Dalakis. “And did you see those soldiers looting that house across the street? They’ve even started a bonfire.”

  “A labor leader lives there,” said Pacheco, “one of the opposition.” He didn’t seem concerned. Really, he seemed more concerned about the death of Schwab. Perhaps he had loved him too, just like Dalakis. And Malgiolio as well. Perhaps I was the only one to remain unmoved.

  Dalakis had begun pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. “That’s no reason to destroy his home.”

  “Most likely they were ordered to destroy the house. We’re quite safe here, if you’re worried.”

  “We were just shot at up on the balcony,” I said. Glancing at Malgiolio, I saw him become rigid. Small teeth, small hands, even his eyes are small. If you dropped two blue marbles into a bowl of porridge, just before they sank from sight they would look like Malgiolio’s eyes.

  Pacheco took the pack of Gauloises from his shirt pocket, discovered it was empty, and crumpled it up. “You have to stay out of sight. Soldiers on the street drinking and shooting off their weapons, what do you expect?” From the side pocket of his gray suitcoat he took a fresh pack and began to open it. The cellophane made a little crinkling noise.

  “But Schwab is dead,” repeated Dalakis. “Why should they kill him?”

  Pacheco looked impatient. “It’s as Carrera said, Schwab had many enemies. Have you no sense of the world you live in? Glance around you, Carl, everything is upside down. Why are you surprised by any of this? Can’t you see the flames?” I wasn’t sure whether Pacheco was referring to the bonfire out in the street or if he was speaking metaphorically, but as if to illustrate his remark, he lit his cigarette, drew on it until his cheeks appeared hollow, then blew a great cloud of smoke in Dalakis’s direction. The harsh smell nauseated me.

  Dalakis stopped pacing and seemed to consider Pacheco’s words. Then, throwing himself down at the other end of the couch, he pushed both hands back through his unruly hair, looked at Pacheco, and laughed, rather desperately I thought. Malgiolio continued to stand by the liquor cabinet, as if that were where he felt safest in a threatened world.

  “The city is being shaken up,” continued Pacheco. “It may be foolish but it’s also deadly. However, none of this is connected to you. You’re not involved. You’re like strangers in your own country. That being so, what can we do but continue our evening?” Then, turning to me, he reached out and tapped my arm. “I hope you don’t mind, Batterby,” he said, “but I have another question or two about your wife.”

  The brazenness of his words surprised me, especially since I had been wondering whether to feel insulted by his other remarks. Certainly I cared about what was happening in the city. On the other hand, there was nothing I wanted to tell him about my private life. “And I have a question for you,” I countered. “Did you succeed in getting Señora Puccini to love you?”

  “My question was first,” said Pacheco.

  “Yes, but I can refuse to answer.” I got up and walked to the liquor cabinet, where I poured myself some mineral water. Malgiolio stepped back to give me room, while continuing to stare at me, but I didn’t allow him to catch my eye.

  “If I tell you what you want to know,” said Pacheco, addressing my back, “will you do the same for me?”

  “Whatever you wish.”

  “Then what was your question again?”

  I returned to my seat. “How you fared with Antonia Puccini.” I was lying, of course. I had no wish to tell him anything.

  Pacheco faced the fireplace and stretched his legs out in front of him. Again he made a little cage with the fingers of both hands and placed it over his mouth and nose. Speaking through it, he said, “You want the details, don’t you, all the ugliness. . . .”

  He began to say more, then stopped and ground out his cigarette in the ashtray. His wounded cheek appeared wet and glistened in the candlelight. “I have already discussed Señora Puccini’s sexuality,” he said at last. “Think of us as if we were divided into many selves and among those selves there is the conscious self or ego who imagines himself to be the captain of his little ship, and there is a sexual self which sometimes seems like the entire ocean. I can remember women I’ve had sex with while all the time my mind is saying, this is a bad idea, she is too young or too crazy or too encumbered. Yet my sexual self pushes aside all reasoning and simply devours. Señora Puccini also has that divided nature. I could approach her any time of the night or day. I could touch her breasts or stroke her cunt. I could walk up behind her when she was at the kitchen sink and press myself against her and then take her, right there, half up on the counter among the potato peelings and red meat. And mostly she too was swept away. There was no love in it, not even affection, just animal pleasure. The way a male cat sinks his teeth into the back of the neck of the female and just hangs on, so too I would take my pleasure in surprising her in different parts of the house, no matter what she was doing. At night I would sometimes come to her after having been with other women and still wearing their smell. And once when I had several men here for dinner I made her strip before them. I made her lean against this very mantel while I took her from behind as my guests watched and cheered me on.

  “After all that you may find it difficult to believe that I loved her. But not only did I desire her, I also wanted to break through her barrier of reserve and coldness. You know the Aesop fable about the sun and wind wagering who could most easily make the traveler remove his heavy coat? The wind blew and blew and the man hugged his coat to him. The sun smiled and shone; the man grew hot and the coat slipped from his shoulders. I was that wind and I buffeted and blew and shook her from one part of the house to the other. I would catch her on the stairs and strip her clothes from her. I would find her making the beds and again I would take her. I would find her in the garden and I would push her down in the dirt and drag up her skirt. And she too would be carried away. She would bite and suck at me and fondle me and scratch and nuzzle and pretend to try to escape. She would grunt and moan like any pig, then scream out or sink her teeth into her lip. She would yank at my hair or slap me or try to drive her knee into my groin as I would evade her or drag her back by her hair or slap her face. I would pull away from her and tease her and not give myself to her until she would beg and crawl after me and I would sit astride her back and dig m
y heels into her ribs until she threw me over onto the floor and grabbed my prick and scratched it with her nails. And one time she took a knife and scratched the words ‘fuck me’ into her belly and I laughed and left her here for a week and when I returned I made her crawl around my feet, for you see she would do all that I told her to do.”

  “Would she kiss you?” asked Dalakis, not looking at Pacheco.

  “Only if I ordered her to do it. She would only do as I commanded. Nothing was offered or given freely. I would say, do this, and she would do it. And of course once we had begun our lovemaking and the passion was upon her, then she would do many things. But she would never kiss me freely and she would never initiate. Even when I knew she wanted me, she would never make the first gesture. And even when she kissed me, I knew she hated it. Sometimes weeks would go by, perhaps even a month while I occupied myself with other women, but she would never speak or make a motion even though I knew she desired me. Then I would take her again or be cruel or humiliate her or make her crawl but nothing seemed to surprise her or take her unawares, nothing broke through the reserve. Like Aesop’s wind, the harder I blew, the more tightly she hugged herself to herself. And after we were done with our lovemaking, she would be as cold as ever.”

  “And there were no restrictions,” asked Malgiolio, “there was nothing you couldn’t do?” He had taken one of Pacheco’s expensive cigars and was in the process of snipping off its tip.

  “She wouldn’t bear my children,” said Pacheco, “and she wouldn’t let me touch her in the room of Roberto Collura. I could interrupt her and make her come out, but I couldn’t touch her inside the room. She reads to him several hours a day. I would stand in the hall and listen to her voice either reading or just talking. I would listen and think how kind she sounded, how solicitous. Could she do this for him, could she do that for him? She would have the servant boy fill a hot tin tub and then she would bathe this Roberto Collura. I would stand in the doorway and watch as she stroked and washed and petted him. You can guess how I hated him. Yet what could I do? She would only be mine for as long as he was alive and so I worked to patch and repair all his little ailments and kept him breathing and relatively healthy. Then I would stand in the hall and listen to her reading him Balzac or Tolstoy or Hugo, huge books that would take her weeks to get through. I would stand out there until I could tolerate no more and I would snap my fingers and make her come to me and take her right there on the rough carpet while she covered her mouth to keep from moaning or crying out, and after I was done she would wash herself and then go back into his room and pick up the book and continue reading.”