Her Husband (7 page)

“When?”

Overjoyed at seeing her so compliant, Giustino told her that they would go the next evening.

“But wait,” he added. “I don’t want you to be embarrassed. I know there are so many little formalities, so many … Yes, they are probably
even foolish, as you think, but it’s good to know them, my dear. I’ll find out. To tell the truth I don’t have much faith in Signora Ely for these things.”

And that evening after leaving the office, Giustino Boggiolo went off to make the visit he had promised Dora Barmis.

Propped against the chest in the entry hall, a crutch. On the crutch, a felt hat. The double doors leading into the parlor were closed, and in the dim anteroom a yellowish green light was diffused through the checkered paper on the glass panels.

“No, no, no. I told you no. Stop it!” He heard the angry shouts from inside.

The maid, coming to open the door, was a little uncertain after this outburst whether it was the right moment to announce the new visitor.

“Is this a bad time?” Giustino asked timidly.

The maid shrugged her shoulders, then took heart and after knocking on the glass panel, she opened it: “There is a gentleman. . . .”

“Boggiolo,” Giustino prompted in a low voice.

“Ah, you Boggiolo? How nice! Come in, come in,” exclaimed Dora Barmis, inclining her head and quickly forcing a smile to replace the scornful, spiteful expression on her flushed face.

Giustino Boggiolo entered a little flustered and nodded to Cosimo Zago, who, downcast and very pale, was getting up. Bowing his large disheveled head, he leaned painfully against the back of a chair.

“I’m going. Good-bye,” he said in a voice he hoped sounded calm.

“Addio,” Dora replied at once, contemptuously, without looking at him; and she turned to smile at Giustino. “Sit down, sit down, Boggiolo. How good of you . . . About time, eh?”

As soon as Zago, limping badly, was gone, she threw herself into a chair and, arms in the air, sighed deeply: “I can’t take anymore! Ah, my dear friend, how people can make you regret having a little heart! But if a poor unfortunate man comes to tell you: ‘I’m ugly … I’m crippled …’ what can you say? ‘No, dear: why? Then just think how Nature has
compensated you with other gifts.’ It’s the truth! You know what beautiful poetry that poor man can make. I tell everyone. I even told him. I’ve published it. But now he makes me regret it.
C’est toujours ainsi!
Because I’m a woman, you see? But I told him
tout bonnemont
, you can believe that. Just like a colleague … I’m a woman because … because I’m not a man, for God’s sake! But I don’t often even think about being a woman, and that’s the truth! I completely forget about it. You know how I’m reminded of it? By the way some men look at me. . . . Oh, God! I burst out laughing. Yes, of course! I say to myself. I really am a woman. They love me. Ha, ha, ha. And now, what can I do, dear Boggiolo, I’m old now, aren’t I? Come on, for heaven’s sake! Give me a compliment, tell me I’m not old.”

“There’s no need to say it,” Giustino said, blushing and lowering his eyes.

Dora Barmis burst out laughing in her usual way, wrinkling her nose: “Darling! Are you embarrassed? But no, come on! Will you have some tea? Vermouth? Here!”

She offered him the box of cigarettes with one hand and with the other pressed the button of the electric bell situated under a shelf loaded with books, knickknacks, statuettes, and photographs.

“Thank you, I don’t smoke,” Giustino said.

Dora placed the cigarettes on the bottom shelf of a small, round coffee table in front of the divan. The maid entered.

“Bring the vermouth. For me, tea. Bring it here, Nina. I’ll pour myself.”

The maid returned shortly with the tea, the vermouth, and sweet rolls in a silver-plated bowl. Dora poured the vermouth and said: “Now that I think of it there’s something else you should be ashamed of, silly boy! Pay attention, because I’m serious now.”

“What should I be ashamed of?” asked Giustino, who had already caught her drift. So much so that a foolish smile took shape under his mustache.

“Nature has given you a treasure, Boggiolo!” Signora Barmis said in a threatening and admonishing tone, wagging a finger. “Have
a fondant
. . . .
Your wife doesn’t belong just to you. Your rights, darling, must be limited. If it won’t make your wife unhappy, you should even . . . Tell me, is your wife jealous of you?”

“Of course not,” Giustino replied. “Anyway, I can’t say, because .. .”

“You’ve never given her the slightest reason,” Dora finished his sentence. “You really are a good boy. That’s obvious. Perhaps
too
good. Huh? Tell the truth. No, you must spare her, Boggiolo. Besides . . . men give a bad name to the thing.” She bent the middle and ring finger of one hand to make the sign of the cuckold. “But a woman with any spirit doesn’t give a hoot: women have their peccadilloes, too. Look at me! Why don’t you look at me? Do I seem very peculiar? Oh, fine, just like that! You laugh? Certainly, darling, being a good boy is not enough when one has the good fortune of having a wife like yours. Do you know the poetess Bertolè-Viazzi? She didn’t come to the banquet because, poor woman . . .”

“She is, also?” Giustino Boggiolo asked piteously

“Eh . . . but much more serious!” Dora exclaimed. “She has a really awful husband!”

Giustino shrugged his shoulders and sighed with a sad smile. “On the other hand . . .”

“What do you mean, the other hand!” Dora Barmis exploded. “In certain cases a husband has to be considerate and think that … Look, for four or five years Bertolè has worked on a poem–very beautiful, I assure you, interwoven with memories of her courageous family: her grandfather was a real patriot, exiled to London, then a soldier with Garibaldi. Her father died at Bezzecca in the War of Independence. Well, then, to think that she already had a gestation like that in her head, a poem I tell you, a poem! And then to see the poor woman simultaneously oppressed, pulled down for another reason. No, no, believe me, it’s just one of many, a cruel oppression! Either one thing or the other!”

“I see,” said Giustino, distressed. “But do you think she’s a little annoyed with me, too? However, Silvia won’t be doing anything all this time.”

“And it will be precious time lost!” exclaimed Dora.

“You’re telling me?” continued Giustino. “Everything lost and nothing earned. A growing family … and who knows how many expenses and cares and worries. Then, the separation. Because we’ll have to send the boy or girl to a wet nurse, near its grandmother.”

“To Taranto?”

“No, not to Taranto. Silvia’s mother died years ago. To my mother at Cargiore.”

“Cargiore?” asked Dora, stretching out on the divan. “Where is Cargiore?”

“In Piedmont. Oh, a small village with just a few houses, near Turin.”

“Because you’re Piedmontese, aren’t you?” asked Signora Barmis, wrapping herself in cigarette smoke. “I can tell by your accent. And how did you ever meet Silvia?”

“Well,” said Giustino, “they sent me down to Taranto after the Notarial Archives competition.”

“Oh, poor dear!”

“A year and a half of exile, believe me. Luckily Silvia’s father was my boss.”

“At the Archives?”

“Chief Archivist, yes indeed. Oh, it was a good job because of him. He took a liking to me immediately.”

“And you, you rascal, you fell in love with his literary daughter?”

“Yes, out of necessity,” smiled Giustino.

“Why ‘necessity’?” Dora asked, startled.

“I say out of necessity because … going there every day … A poor young man there alone … She couldn’t know what was going on. I had always lived with my mamma, poor little old woman. I was used to her taking care of me. The Honorable Datti promised that he would soon have me called to Rome, to the archives of the Council of State. Yes, Datti! But could my mother have gone there with me? I had to take a wife. By necessity. But I didn’t fall in love with Silvia because she was a literary celebrity, you know? I wasn’t even thinking about literature then. Yes, I knew that Silvia had published two books. But that didn’t mean anything to me. . . . I’m going on too much!”

“No, no, tell me, tell me,” Dora encouraged. “This is such fun.”

“But there’s not much to tell,” Giustino said. “When I went to her house for the first time I expected to find … I don’t know, a flighty young woman. But just the opposite! Simple, shy … but you’ve already seen her.”

“What a dear! Yes, what a dear!” Dora exclaimed.

“Her father, my father-in-law, was a good soul, also.”

“Oh, did her father die too?”

“Yes, indeed, suddenly, barely a month after our wedding. Poor man, he was such a fanatic! But it’s understandable: she was his only child. He was so proud of her. He gave all his employees at the office her books and the newspaper articles about them. That was the first time I’d read them, too, and so . ..”

“An official duty, eh?” Signora Barmis asked with a laugh.

“Just imagine,” Giustino replied. “However, her father’s enthusiasm really bothered Silvia, and she wouldn’t let him talk about her books around her. Very quiet, not ostentatious, even in the way she dressed, you know? She took care of the house, did everything. After we were married, she even made me laugh. . . .”

“When you wanted to cry?”

“No, I’m saying she made me laugh because she confessed what she called her secret vice: writing. She said I had to respect it, but in exchange I would never know when she wrote or how she managed to write between household duties.”

“Dear girl! And you?”

“I promised. But then, a few months after the wedding–honestly!–a check for three hundred marks arrived from Germany for the translation rights. Silvia hadn’t expected it either, imagine! She was so happy that those books of hers had a value that she didn’t even suspect. Ignorant, inexperienced, she had agreed to the request for the translation of
Stormy Petrel
(her second volume of short stories) without expecting anything.”

“And what did you do then?”

“Well, you can imagine what an eye-opener that was! Other requests came from journals, from newspapers. Silvia admitted she had many
other short stories in a drawer, and the outline for a novel . . .
House of Dwarves
. . . . Free? What do you mean, free? Why? Isn’t it work? And shouldn’t work earn money? Writers don’t know how to assert themselves when it comes to this part. It takes someone who knows about these things and takes care of them. Look, as soon as I understood there was something to be gotten out of them, I went about it in a proper, orderly way. I wrote a friend of mine who owns a bookstore in Turin to get information about the book trade and corresponded with several editors of journals and newspapers who had praised Silvia’s books. I even wrote to Raceni, I remember.”

“I remember that, too!” Dora exclaimed, smiling.

“Raceni is so kind!” Giustino continued. “And then I studied the law concerning literary property, of course! And also the Bern treaty on authors’ rights . . . Ah, literature is a battlefield, my dear lady, where one fights bald-faced exploitation by the press and editors. In the early days they even exploited me! I negotiated blindly, you know. . . . But then, seeing how things worked . . . Silvia was alarmed by the conditions I made, but when she saw my demands were accepted and when I showed her the money, she was pleased. . . . Oh, naturally! But, you know, I can say I earned the money, because she never knew how to get anything out of her work.”

“What a prize you are, Boggiolo!” Dora said, bending over for a closer look at him.

“I’m not saying that,” Giustino replied, “but I know how to make a deal. I work at it. I really am grateful to my friends, to Raceni, for example, who has been so kind to my wife from the beginning. To you, too.”

“But no! Me? What have I done?” Dora protested vigorously.

“You, too, dear lady, you too,” Giustino repeated. “Along with Raceni, so kind. And Senator Borghi?”

“Ah, he has been the godfather of Silvia Roncella’s fame!” said Dora.

“Yes, Signora, yes, Signora . . . exactly,” confirmed Boggiolo. “And I owe my coming to Rome to him also, did you know that? We didn’t need the problems of a pregnancy right now. . . .”

“You see?” exclaimed Dora. “And she’ll suffer tremendously when she has to be separated from her baby!”

“But!” said Boggiolo, “having to work . . .”

“It’s very sad!” sighed Signora Barmis. “A child! … It must be terrible to see yourself, feel yourself a mother! I would die of joy and fright! Dear, dear, dear, don’t let me think about it.”

She leaped to her feet, as though spring-propelled, and went to find the light switch next to the door. Then she turned and said in a different voice: “Or do we want to stay like this? Don’t you like it?
Dämmerung
... The sorrow of the dying day makes me sad, but it’s also a good thing. Good and bad, for me. Often I become a worse person, thinking in this dim light. It breaks my heart and makes me envious of other people’s homes, of every home different from this one.”

“But it’s so beautiful here,” Giustino said, looking around.

“I mean, so alone . . .” Dora explained, “so sad … I hate you all–you men, understand? Because it would be so much easier for you to be good, and you aren’t, and you brag about it. Oh, how many men I’ve heard laugh about their treachery, Boggiolo. And while listening to them I’ve laughed, too. But afterward, thinking it over alone, at this time of day, how often I’ve so wanted … to kill! Oh, well, let’s have the light. It’ll be better!”

She turned the switch and greeted the light with a deep sigh. She had actually grown pale and tears veiled her heavily made-up eyes.

“You can be sure I’m not talking about you,” she added with a sad smile as she came back to sit down. “You’re a good man, I can see. Do you want to be my good friend?”

“Very much!” Giustino was quick to respond, a bit unsettled.

“Give me your hand,” Dora continued. “Really good? For a long time I’ve looked for someone who would be a brother to me. . . .”

And she squeezed his hand.

“Yes, Signora . . .”

“One I can talk freely to . . .”

And she gave a harder squeeze.

“Yes, Signora . . .”

“Ah, if you only knew how painful it is to feel all alone, alone in my soul, understand? Because my body … Oh, they only look at my body, how I’m made…. My hips, breast, mouth … But they don’t look into my eyes because they are ashamed. And I want them to look into my eyes, my eyes. . . .”

She continued squeezing his hand.

“Yes, Signora,” Giustino repeated, looking her in the eyes, confused and blushing.

“Because my soul is in my eyes, my soul that looks for another soul to confide in and say it’s not true that we don’t believe in goodness, that we are not honest when we laugh at everything, when we become cynical in order to appear experienced, Boggiolo! Boggiolo!”