The Complete Stories (24 page)
Read The Complete Stories Online
Authors: Bernard Malamud
“I didn’t say no more. What more could I say? All day long, from early in the morning till late in the night she worked like an animal. All day she mopped, she washed with soap and a brush the
shelves, the few cans she polished, but the store was still rotten. The little girls I was afraid to look at. I could see in their faces their bones. They were tired, they were weak. Little Surale held with her hand all the time the dress of Fega. Once when I saw them in the street I gave them some cakes, but when I tried the next day to give them something else, the mother shouldn’t know, Fega answered me, ‘We can’t take, Momma says today is a fast day.’
shelves, the few cans she polished, but the store was still rotten. The little girls I was afraid to look at. I could see in their faces their bones. They were tired, they were weak. Little Surale held with her hand all the time the dress of Fega. Once when I saw them in the street I gave them some cakes, but when I tried the next day to give them something else, the mother shouldn’t know, Fega answered me, ‘We can’t take, Momma says today is a fast day.’
“I went inside. I made my voice soft. ‘Eva, on my bended knees, I am a man with nothing in this world. Allow me that I should have a little pleasure before I die. Allow me that I should help you to stock up once more the store.’
“So what did she do? She cried, it was terrible to see. And after she cried, what did she say? She told me to go away and I shouldn’t come back. I felt like to pick up a chair and break her head.
“In my house I was too weak to eat. For two days I took in my mouth nothing except maybe a spoon of chicken noodle soup, or maybe a glass tea without sugar. This wasn’t good for me. My health felt bad.
“Then I made up a scheme that I was a friend of Axel’s who lived in Jersey. I said I owed Axel seven hundred dollars that he lent me this money fifteen years ago, before he got married. I said I did not have the whole money now, but I would send her every week twenty dollars till it was paid up the debt. I put inside the letter two tens and gave it to a friend of mine, also a salesman, he should mail it in Newark so she wouldn’t be suspicious who wrote the letters.”
To Rosen’s surprise Davidov had stopped writing. The book was full, so he tossed it onto the table, yawned, yet listened amiably. His curiosity had died.
Rosen got up and fingered the notebook. He tried to read the small distorted handwriting but could not make out a single word.
“It’s not English and it’s not Yiddish,” he said. “Could it be in Hebrew?”
“No,” answered Davidov. “It’s an old-fashioned language they don’t use it nowadays.”
“Oh?” Rosen returned to the cot. He saw no purpose in going on now that it was not required, but he felt he had to.
“Came back all the letters,” he said dully. “The first she opened it, then pasted back again the envelope, but the rest she didn’t even open.”
“‘Here,’ I said to myself, ’is a very strange thing—a person that you can never give her anything.—
But I will give
.’
But I will give
.’
“I went then to my lawyer and we made out a will that everything
I had—all my investments, my two houses that I owned, also furniture, my car, the checking account—every cent would go to her, and when she died, the rest would be left for the two girls. The same with my insurance. They would be my beneficiaries. Then I signed and went home. In the kitchen I turned on the gas and put my head in the stove.
I had—all my investments, my two houses that I owned, also furniture, my car, the checking account—every cent would go to her, and when she died, the rest would be left for the two girls. The same with my insurance. They would be my beneficiaries. Then I signed and went home. In the kitchen I turned on the gas and put my head in the stove.
“Let her say now no.”
Davidov, scratching his stubbled cheek, nodded. This was the part he already knew. He got up and, before Rosen could cry no, idly raised the window shade.
It was twilight in space but a woman stood before the window.
Rosen with a bound was off his cot to see.
It was Eva, staring at him with haunted, beseeching eyes. She raised her arms to him.
Infuriated, the ex-salesman shook his fist.
“Whore, bastard, bitch,” he shouted at her. “Go ’way from here. Go home to your children.”
Davidov made no move to hinder him as Rosen rammed down the window shade.
1956
E
leonora was an Umbrian girl whom the portiere’s wife had brought up to the Agostinis’ first-floor apartment after their two unhappy experiences with Italian maids, not long after they had arrived in Rome from Chicago. She was about twenty-three, thin, and with bent bony shoulders which she embarrassedly characterized as gobbo—hunchbacked. But she was not unattractive and had an interesting profile, George Agostini thought. Her full face was not so interesting; like the portinaia’s, also an Umbrian, it was too broad and round, and her left brown eye was slightly wider than her right. It also looked sadder than her right eye.
leonora was an Umbrian girl whom the portiere’s wife had brought up to the Agostinis’ first-floor apartment after their two unhappy experiences with Italian maids, not long after they had arrived in Rome from Chicago. She was about twenty-three, thin, and with bent bony shoulders which she embarrassedly characterized as gobbo—hunchbacked. But she was not unattractive and had an interesting profile, George Agostini thought. Her full face was not so interesting; like the portinaia’s, also an Umbrian, it was too broad and round, and her left brown eye was slightly wider than her right. It also looked sadder than her right eye.
She was an active girl, always moving in her noisy slippers at a half trot across the marble floors of the furnished two-bedroom apartment, getting things done without having to be told, and handling the two children very well. After the second girl was let go, George had wished they didn’t have to be bothered with a full-time live-in maid. He had suggested that maybe Grace ought to go back to sharing the signora’s maid—their landlady across the hall—for three hours a day, paying her on an hourly basis, as they had when they first moved in after a rough month of apartment hunting. But when George mentioned this, Grace made a gesture of tearing her red hair, so he said nothing more. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her to have the girl—she certainly needed one with all the time it took to shop in six or seven stores instead of one supermarket, and she was even without a washing machine, with all the kids’ things to do; but George
felt he wasn’t comfortable with a maid always around. He didn’t like people waiting on him, or watching him eat. George was heavy, and sensitive about it. He also didn’t like her standing back to let him enter a room first. He didn’t want her saying “Comanda” the minute he spoke her name. Furthermore he wasn’t happy about the tiny maid’s room the girl lived in, or her sinkless bathroom, with its cramped sitzbath and no water heater. Grace, whose people had always been much better off than his, said everybody in Italy had maids and he would get used to it. George hadn’t got used to the first two girls, but he did find that Eleonora bothered him less. He liked her more as a person and felt sorry for her. She looked as though she had more on her back than her bent shoulders.
felt he wasn’t comfortable with a maid always around. He didn’t like people waiting on him, or watching him eat. George was heavy, and sensitive about it. He also didn’t like her standing back to let him enter a room first. He didn’t want her saying “Comanda” the minute he spoke her name. Furthermore he wasn’t happy about the tiny maid’s room the girl lived in, or her sinkless bathroom, with its cramped sitzbath and no water heater. Grace, whose people had always been much better off than his, said everybody in Italy had maids and he would get used to it. George hadn’t got used to the first two girls, but he did find that Eleonora bothered him less. He liked her more as a person and felt sorry for her. She looked as though she had more on her back than her bent shoulders.
One afternoon about a week and a half after Eleonora had come to them, when George arrived home from the FAO office where he worked, during the long lunch break, Grace said the maid was in her room crying.
“What for?” George said, worried.
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t you ask her?”
“Sure I did, but all I could gather was that she’s had a sad life. You’re the linguist around here, why don’t you ask her?”
“What are you so annoyed about?”
“Because I feel like a fool, frankly, not knowing what it’s all about.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“She came out of the hall crying, about an hour ago,” Grace said. “I had sent her up to the roof with a bundle of wash to do in one of the tubs up there instead of our bathtub, so she doesn’t have to lug the heavy wet stuff up to the lines on the roof but can hang it out right away. Anyway, she wasn’t gone five minutes before she was back crying, and that was when she answered me about her sad life. I wanted to tell her I have a sad life too. We’ve been in Rome close to two months and I haven’t even been able to see St. Peter’s. When will I ever see anything?”
“Let’s talk about her,” George said. “Do you know what happened in the hall?”
“I told you I didn’t. After she came back, I went down to the ground floor to talk to the portinaia—she has some smattering of English—and she told me that Eleonora had been married but had lost her husband. He died or something when she was eighteen. Then she had a baby by another guy who didn’t stay around long enough
to see if he recognized it, and that, I suppose, is why she finds life so sad.”
to see if he recognized it, and that, I suppose, is why she finds life so sad.”
“Did the portinaia say whether the kid is still alive?” George asked.
“Yes. She keeps it in a convent school.”
“Maybe that’s what got her down,” he suggested. “She thinks of her kid being away from her and then feels bad.”
“So she starts to cry in the hall?”
“Why not in the hall? Why not anywhere so long as you feel like crying? Maybe I ought to talk to her.”
Grace nodded. Her face was flushed, and George knew she was troubled.
He went into the corridor and knocked on the door of the maid’s room. “Permesso,” George said.
“Prego.” Eleonora had been lying on the bed but was respectfully on her feet when George entered. He could see she had been crying. Her eyes were red and her face pale. She looked scared, and George’s throat went dry.
“Eleonora, I am sorry to see you like this,” he said in Italian. “Is there something either my wife or I can do to help you?”
“No, Signore,” she said quietly.
“What happened to you out in the hall?”
Her eyes glistened but she held back the tears. “Nothing. One feels like crying, so she cries. Do these things have a reason?”
“Are you satisfied with conditions here?” George asked her.
“Yes.”
“If there is something we can do for you, I want you to tell us.”
“Please don’t trouble yourself about me.” She lifted the bottom of her skirt, at the same time bending her head to dry her eyes on it. Her bare legs were hairy but shapely.
“No trouble at all,” George said. He closed the door softly.
“Let her rest,” he said to Grace.
“Damn! Just when I have to go out.”
But in a few minutes Eleonora came out and went on with her work in the kitchen. They said nothing more and neither did she. Then at three George left for the office, and Grace put on her hat and went off to her Italian class and then to St. Peter’s.
That night when George got home from work, Grace called him into their bedroom and said she now knew what had created all the commotion that afternoon. First the signora, after returning from an appointment with her doctor, had bounded in from across the hall,
and Grace had gathered from the hot stew the old woman was in that she was complaining about their maid. The portinaia then happened to come up with the six o’clock mail, and the signora laced into her for bringing an inferior type of maid into the house. Finally, when the signora had left, the portinaia told Grace that the old lady had been the one who had made Eleonora cry. She had apparently forbidden the girl to use the elevator. She would listen behind the door, and as soon as she heard someone putting the key into the elevator lock, she would fling open her door, and if it was Eleonora, as she had suspected, she would cry out, “The key is not for you. The key is not for you.” She would stand in front of the elevator, waving her arms to prevent her from entering. “Use the stairs,” she cried, “the stairs are for walking. There is no need to fly, or God would have given you wings.”
and Grace had gathered from the hot stew the old woman was in that she was complaining about their maid. The portinaia then happened to come up with the six o’clock mail, and the signora laced into her for bringing an inferior type of maid into the house. Finally, when the signora had left, the portinaia told Grace that the old lady had been the one who had made Eleonora cry. She had apparently forbidden the girl to use the elevator. She would listen behind the door, and as soon as she heard someone putting the key into the elevator lock, she would fling open her door, and if it was Eleonora, as she had suspected, she would cry out, “The key is not for you. The key is not for you.” She would stand in front of the elevator, waving her arms to prevent her from entering. “Use the stairs,” she cried, “the stairs are for walking. There is no need to fly, or God would have given you wings.”
“Anyway,” Grace went on, “Eleonora must have been outwitting her or something, because what she would do, according to the portinaia, was go upstairs to the next floor and call the elevator from there. But today the signora got suspicious and followed Eleonora up the stairs. She gave her a bad time up there. When she blew in here before, Eleonora got so scared that she ran to her room and locked the door. The signora said she would have to ask us not to give our girl the key anymore. She shook her keys at me.”
“What did you say after that?” George asked.
“Nothing. I wasn’t going to pick a fight with her even if I could speak the language. A month of hunting apartments was enough for me.
“We have a lease,” said George.
“Leases have been broken.”
“She wouldn’t do it—she needs the money.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” said Grace.
“It burns me up,” George said. “Why shouldn’t the girl use the elevator to lug the clothes up to the roof? Five floors is a long haul.”
“Apparently none of the other girls does,” Grace said. “I saw one of them carrying a basket of wash up the stairs on her head.”
“They ought to join the acrobats’ union.”
“We have to stick to their customs.”
“I’d still like to tell the old dame off.”
“This is Rome, George, not Chicago. You came here of your own free will.”
“Where’s Eleonora?” George asked.
“In the kitchen.”
George went into the kitchen. Eleonora was washing the children’s supper dishes in a pan of hot water. When George came in she looked up with fear, the fear in her left eye shining more brightly than in her right.
“I’m sorry about the business in the hall,” George said with sympathy, “but why didn’t you tell me about it this afternoon?”
“I don’t want to make trouble.”
“Would you like me to talk to the signora?”
“No, no.”
“I want you to ride in the elevator if you want to.”
“Thank you, but it doesn’t matter.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“I’m always crying, Signore. Don’t bother to notice it.”
“Have it your own way,” George said.
He thought that ended it, but a week later as he came into the building at lunchtime he saw Eleonora getting into the elevator with a laundry bundle. The portinaia had just opened the door for her with her key, but when she saw George she quickly ducked down the stairs to the basement. George got on the elevator with Eleonora. Her face was crimson.
“I see you don’t mind using the elevator,” he said.
“Ah, Signore”—she shrugged—“we must all try to improve ourselves.”
“Are you no longer afraid of the signora?”
“Her girl told me the signora is sick,” Eleonora said happily.
Eleonora’s luck held, George learned, because the signora stayed too sick to be watching the elevator, and one day after the maid rode up in it to the roof, she met a plumber’s helper working on the washtubs, Fabrizio Occhiogrosso, who asked her to go out with him on her next afternoon off. Eleonora, who had been doing little on her Thursday and Sunday afternoons off, mostly spending her time with the portinaia, readily accepted. Fabrizio, a short man with pointed shoes, a thick trunk, hairy arms, and the swarthy face of a Spaniard, came for her on his motorbike and away they would go together, she sitting on the seat behind him, holding both arms around his belly. She sat astride the seat, and when Fabrizio, after impatiently revving the Vespa, roared up the narrow street, the wind fluttered her skirt and her bare legs were exposed above the knees.
“Where do they go?” George once asked Grace.
“She says he has a room on the Via della Purificazione.”
“Do they always go to his room?”
“She says they sometimes ride to the Borghese Gardens or go to the movies.”
One night in early December, after the maid had mentioned that Fabrizio was her fiance now, George and Grace stood at their living-room window looking down into the street as Eleonora got on the motorbike and it raced off out of sight.
“I hope she knows what she’s doing,” he muttered in a worried tone. “I don’t much take to Fabrizio.”
“So long as she doesn’t get pregnant too soon. I’d hate to lose her.”
George was silent for a time, then remarked, “How responsible do you suppose we are for her morals?”
“Her morals?” laughed Grace. “Are you batty?”
“I never had a maid before,” George said.
“This is our third.”
“I mean in principle.”
“Stop mothering the world,” said Grace.
Then one Sunday after midnight Eleonora came home on the verge of fainting. What George had thought might happen had. Fabrizio had taken off into the night on his motorbike. When they had arrived at his room early that evening, a girl from Perugia was sitting on his bed. The portiere had let her in after she had showed him an engagement ring and a snapshot of her and Fabrizio in a rowboat. When Eleonora demanded to know who this one was, the plumber’s helper did not bother to explain but ran down the stairs, mounted his Vespa, and drove away. The girl disappeared. Eleonora wandered the streets for hours, then returned to Fabrizio’s room. The portiere told her that he had been back, packed his valise, and left for Perugia, the young lady riding on the back seat.
Eleonora dragged herself home. When she got up the next morning to make breakfast she was a skeleton of herself and the gobbo looked like a hill. She said nothing and they asked nothing. What Grace wanted to know she later got from the portinaia. Eleonora no longer ran through her chores but did everything wearily, each movement like flowing stone. Afraid she would collapse, George advised her to take a week off and go home. He would pay her salary and give her something extra for the bus.
“No, Signore,” she said dully, “it is better for me to work.” She said, “I have been through so much, more is not noticeable.”
But then she had to notice it. One afternoon she absentmindedly picked up Grace’s keys and got on the elevator with a bag of clothes
to be washed. The signora, having recovered her health, was waiting for her. She flung open the door, grabbed Eleonora by the arm as she was about to close the elevator door, and dragged her out.
to be washed. The signora, having recovered her health, was waiting for her. She flung open the door, grabbed Eleonora by the arm as she was about to close the elevator door, and dragged her out.
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