Clelia and Ginetta. I remembered what Doro had said as we went down the mountain, that the characteristic thing for someone who marries is to live with more than one woman. But was Ginetta a woman? Her frowning smile and some of her busybody opinions made her seem more like a sexless adolescent. Still less could I imagine how Clelia was supposed to have resembled her as a girl. There was a certain tomboyishness in Ginetta, restrained most of the time, that every so often seemed to shake loose her whole body. She was certainly not given to confessing herself with friends;
still, to look at her talking, one had the sense that there was nothing there to hide. Those gray eyes were as clear and candid as the air itself.
They were discussing some scandal or other—I don't remember what—but I recall that Ginetta was defending the people involved and appealed to Doro, interrupting all the time, while Clelia very gently reminded her that it wasn't a question of morals but rather of taste.
"But they will get married," Ginetta said.
That was no solution, Clelia put in,- marriage is a choice, not a remedy, a choice that should be made calmly.
"Damn it, it will be a choice," Guido interrupted, "after all the experiments they've made."
Ginetta didn't smile,- she repeated that if the purpose of marriage was to have a family, all the better to make up one's mind right away.
"But the purpose isn't just to have a family," Doro said. "It's to prepare a background for a family."
"Better a child without a background than a background without children," Ginetta said. Then she blushed and caught my glance. Clelia got up to serve the drinks.
Then we played cards. It was late when Guido finally drove us home. After dropping Ginetta in front of the garage, we walked back to the hotel. I would have liked to walk alone, but having said little all evening and played cards with aggressive indifference, Guido wanted to keep me company. I brought up Mara again, but Guido didn't seem interested. Mara was in good hands and in no danger. When we reached the hotel, he kept on walking.
We arrived at the end of my little alley in silence. I made as if to stop. Guido went on a few steps, then turned and remarked casually: "Let them wait. Come as far as the station with me."
I asked him who would be waiting for me, and Guido replied indifferently that, what the devil, I must have company of some sort. "Nobody," I replied. "I'm a bachelor and alone."
Then Guido muttered something, which started us walking again.
Who would be waiting for me, I asked again. Perhaps that boy of the beach?
"No, no, professor, I meant some relationship ... some affair."
"Why? Have you seen me in company?"
"No, I don't say that. But, after all, one needs some relief."
"I'm here to rest," I said. "My relief is being alone."
"I see," Guido said absent-mindedly.
We were on the little square, before the cafe, when I spoke. "And you have a friend?"
Guido looked up. "That I have," he said belligerently. "That I have. We're not all saints. And she costs me a pile."
"Engineer," I exclaimed, "you manage to keep her well hidden."
Guido gave a self-satisfied smirk. "That's why it costs me a pile. Two accounts, two establishments, two tables. Believe me, a mistress is more expensive than a wife."
"Get married," I said.
Guido showed his gold teeth. "It would always be a double expense. You don't know women. A girl is modest enough while she's still hoping. She has everything to gain. But the fool who marries is at her mercy."
"And you marry the lady."
"We're fooling. Leave those things to old men."
I dropped him in front of his hotel, promising to meet his woman the next day. He shook my hand enthusiastically. Entering my place, I thought of Berti and looked around, but he wasn't there.
The next morning I was busy writing until the sun was well up, then I wandered the streets chewing over the last evening's conversations. Now, in the noise and brilliance of the day, they
still, to look at her talking, one had the sense that there was nothing there to hide. Those gray eyes were as clear and candid as the air itself.
They were discussing some scandal or other—I don't remember what—but I recall that Ginetta was defending the people involved and appealed to Doro, interrupting all the time, while Clelia very gently reminded her that it wasn't a question of morals but rather of taste.
"But they will get married," Ginetta said.
That was no solution, Clelia put in,- marriage is a choice, not a remedy, a choice that should be made calmly.
"Damn it, it will be a choice," Guido interrupted, "after all the experiments they've made."
Ginetta didn't smile,- she repeated that if the purpose of marriage was to have a family, all the better to make up one's mind right away.
"But the purpose isn't just to have a family," Doro said. "It's to prepare a background for a family."
"Better a child without a background than a background without children," Ginetta said. Then she blushed and caught my glance. Clelia got up to serve the drinks.
Then we played cards. It was late when Guido finally drove us home. After dropping Ginetta in front of the garage, we walked back to the hotel. I would have liked to walk alone, but having said little all evening and played cards with aggressive indifference, Guido wanted to keep me company. I brought up Mara again, but Guido didn't seem interested. Mara was in good hands and in no danger. When we reached the hotel, he kept on walking.
We arrived at the end of my little alley in silence. I made as if to stop. Guido went on a few steps, then turned and remarked casually: "Let them wait. Come as far as the station with me."
I asked him who would be waiting for me, and Guido replied indifferently that, what the devil, I must have company of some sort. "Nobody," I replied. "I'm a bachelor and alone."
Then Guido muttered something, which started us walking again.
Who would be waiting for me, I asked again. Perhaps that boy of the beach?
"No, no, professor, I meant some relationship ... some affair."
"Why? Have you seen me in company?"
"No, I don't say that. But, after all, one needs some relief."
"I'm here to rest," I said. "My relief is being alone."
"I see," Guido said absent-mindedly.
We were on the little square, before the cafe, when I spoke. "And you have a friend?"
Guido looked up. "That I have," he said belligerently. "That I have. We're not all saints. And she costs me a pile."
"Engineer," I exclaimed, "you manage to keep her well hidden."
Guido gave a self-satisfied smirk. "That's why it costs me a pile. Two accounts, two establishments, two tables. Believe me, a mistress is more expensive than a wife."
"Get married," I said.
Guido showed his gold teeth. "It would always be a double expense. You don't know women. A girl is modest enough while she's still hoping. She has everything to gain. But the fool who marries is at her mercy."
"And you marry the lady."
"We're fooling. Leave those things to old men."
I dropped him in front of his hotel, promising to meet his woman the next day. He shook my hand enthusiastically. Entering my place, I thought of Berti and looked around, but he wasn't there.
The next morning I was busy writing until the sun was well up, then I wandered the streets chewing over the last evening's conversations. Now, in the noise and brilliance of the day, they
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