seemed off-color and inconsistent. I aimed for the beach, where everybody was gathered by now.
But I met Guido at the entrance to the bathhouses, this time in a maroon wrapper. He drew me aside and steered me without a word toward that certain umbrella. When we were there, Guido broke into a boyish smile and exclaimed: "Nina darling, how did you sleep? Allow me..." and he told her my name. I touched the fingers of that skinny hand, but between the glare and obstruction of the umbrella, I saw chiefly two long, blackened legs and the complicated sandals in which they ended. She got up to sit in the deck chair and looked me over with eyes as hard, as fleshless as the voice she directed at Guido.
We exchanged a few compliments. I asked how she had enjoyed her swim. She said she only went in toward evening, when the water had warmed. She honored my joke with a few barks of laughter and held my hand a good while when I said goodbye, asking me to come back. Guido stayed with her.
I reached the rocks and saw Berti sitting back, chatting with a sixteen-year-old friend of Ginetta's. Doro, stretched on the sand between them, left them alone. By this time Clelia was in the water.
8
One morning Doro took me by the arm and explained why he was tired of painting. We were slowly leaving the village on the road that climbed above the sea.
"If I could be a boy again," he told me, "I'd do nothing but paint. I'd leave home and slam the door behind me. It would be something definite."
This show of feeling pleased me. I told him in that case he wouldn't have married Clelia. Doro said laughing that that was the only thing he hadn't been mistaken about. Yes. Clelia was a true vocation. Still, he said, it wasn't those stupid paintings he did to pass the time that made him furious; it was his having lost the enthusiasm and will to discuss things with me.
"What things?"
He paused and looked at me rather haughtily and said that if this was how I was going to take it he would complain no more. Because I was also getting old and obviously it happened that way to everybody.
"It could be," I said, "but if you have lost the desire to talk, I don't come into it."
I didn't warm to this line of speculation. The fuss was ridiculous, but I kept silent and Doro dropped my arm. I looked down at the sea beneath us and an idea occurred to me: Could his quarrels with Clelia have consisted of nonsense like this?
But here was Doro talking again in the same careless tone as before. I saw that my annoyance had made no impression. I answered in the same vein, but my rancor grew into a quite genuine anger.
"You still haven't told me why you quarreled with Clelia," I finally said.
But Doro eluded me again. At first he didn't understand what I was getting at, then he looked at me quizzically and said: "Are you still thinking about that? You are stubborn. It happens every day between married people."
The same day I told Clelia, after she had been complaining about a boring novel, that in such cases the fault lies with the reader. Clelia raised her eyes and smiled. "It always happens," she said. "One comes here for a rest and ends up being impertinent."
"Everybody?"
"Guido, too. But Guido has the excuse that his mistress torments him. You, no."
I shrugged my shoulders and looked foolish. When I told her I had met the aforesaid lady, Clelia blushed with pleasure and almost clapping her hands begged me: "Tell me, tell me, what's she like?"
I knew only that Guido had half a mind to get rid of her—palm her off on me, for instance. I said this in a quiet way that Clelia seemed to like; she was pleased. "He complains that she costs too much," I added. "Why doesn't he marry her?"
"That's all we need!" Clelia said. "But that woman is a fool. Look at the intelligence she shows in letting herself be shut up in a cupboard like a Christmas present."
"So far I've only seen her legs. Who is she? A ballerina?"
"A cashier," said Clelia. "A witch whom everyone in
But I met Guido at the entrance to the bathhouses, this time in a maroon wrapper. He drew me aside and steered me without a word toward that certain umbrella. When we were there, Guido broke into a boyish smile and exclaimed: "Nina darling, how did you sleep? Allow me..." and he told her my name. I touched the fingers of that skinny hand, but between the glare and obstruction of the umbrella, I saw chiefly two long, blackened legs and the complicated sandals in which they ended. She got up to sit in the deck chair and looked me over with eyes as hard, as fleshless as the voice she directed at Guido.
We exchanged a few compliments. I asked how she had enjoyed her swim. She said she only went in toward evening, when the water had warmed. She honored my joke with a few barks of laughter and held my hand a good while when I said goodbye, asking me to come back. Guido stayed with her.
I reached the rocks and saw Berti sitting back, chatting with a sixteen-year-old friend of Ginetta's. Doro, stretched on the sand between them, left them alone. By this time Clelia was in the water.
8
One morning Doro took me by the arm and explained why he was tired of painting. We were slowly leaving the village on the road that climbed above the sea.
"If I could be a boy again," he told me, "I'd do nothing but paint. I'd leave home and slam the door behind me. It would be something definite."
This show of feeling pleased me. I told him in that case he wouldn't have married Clelia. Doro said laughing that that was the only thing he hadn't been mistaken about. Yes. Clelia was a true vocation. Still, he said, it wasn't those stupid paintings he did to pass the time that made him furious; it was his having lost the enthusiasm and will to discuss things with me.
"What things?"
He paused and looked at me rather haughtily and said that if this was how I was going to take it he would complain no more. Because I was also getting old and obviously it happened that way to everybody.
"It could be," I said, "but if you have lost the desire to talk, I don't come into it."
I didn't warm to this line of speculation. The fuss was ridiculous, but I kept silent and Doro dropped my arm. I looked down at the sea beneath us and an idea occurred to me: Could his quarrels with Clelia have consisted of nonsense like this?
But here was Doro talking again in the same careless tone as before. I saw that my annoyance had made no impression. I answered in the same vein, but my rancor grew into a quite genuine anger.
"You still haven't told me why you quarreled with Clelia," I finally said.
But Doro eluded me again. At first he didn't understand what I was getting at, then he looked at me quizzically and said: "Are you still thinking about that? You are stubborn. It happens every day between married people."
The same day I told Clelia, after she had been complaining about a boring novel, that in such cases the fault lies with the reader. Clelia raised her eyes and smiled. "It always happens," she said. "One comes here for a rest and ends up being impertinent."
"Everybody?"
"Guido, too. But Guido has the excuse that his mistress torments him. You, no."
I shrugged my shoulders and looked foolish. When I told her I had met the aforesaid lady, Clelia blushed with pleasure and almost clapping her hands begged me: "Tell me, tell me, what's she like?"
I knew only that Guido had half a mind to get rid of her—palm her off on me, for instance. I said this in a quiet way that Clelia seemed to like; she was pleased. "He complains that she costs too much," I added. "Why doesn't he marry her?"
"That's all we need!" Clelia said. "But that woman is a fool. Look at the intelligence she shows in letting herself be shut up in a cupboard like a Christmas present."
"So far I've only seen her legs. Who is she? A ballerina?"
"A cashier," said Clelia. "A witch whom everyone in
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