astride before a blotched mahogany-framed mirror, he crisped his hair; but from time to time his whole body was shaken with a cough and he would yet again lean out and spit into the darkness.
When, an hour later, the house was still and Giorgio had slipped out on his outrageous errand, Enzo still lay naked on the crumpled coverlet, his arms crossed behind his head and his eyes staring at the ceiling. He hated them, he hated them all. The money was his, Giorgio and his father had stolen it from him. They didn’t care if his back got worse and worse until he became a cripple. He couldn’t help it if he couldn’t get work. There were thirty-eight thousand unemployed in Florence alone, it was so unjust. So unjust, unjust. And his father had never done a stroke of work for as long as he could remember. Selling guidebooks in the Signoria, that wasn’t work, and he didn’t even do that now. Drinking and smoking and playing cards, and talking politics, politics, politics, while his mother worked herself to the bone. Oh, but she was so weak with him, always had been, had only herself to blame. If only he could get away! Why not to England, or to America? There a chap had a chance. That’s all he wanted, just a chance. Or Tunis. Rodolfo had spoken to him so often about Tunis. One walked through the orange groves and picked oranges, just put up one’s hand.… But the French had turned them all out, they weren’t wanted there, they were wanted nowhere. He was wanted nowhere. Nowhere. Wanted nowhere.… He turned over and lay with his hot cheek against the cold pillow; sweat trickled down between his shoulder-blades while, one hand, hanging over the edge of the bed, rapped on the floorboards. At this moment Giorgio was lying in her arms, here, just here, beneath his fingers. Again he rapped. Oh, it was horrible. He thought back to his first and only visit to the ‘‘casino”, and how afterwards he had pretended to Rodolfo that he had enjoyed it. But of course Giorgio was right. Bella was beautiful. Sitting at the open window, her sewing in her lap, while she gazed down. Such fine wrists and the soft shadows under her cheek-bones, soft shadows between her breasts when she wore that silk dress and leant forward to pick up a reel of cotton.… Feeling an increasing pressure in his loins, he turned over once more on to his back, and stared at the ceiling.…
‘‘Mother! What are you doing?’’
‘‘Sh!’’
Her hair now in pig-tails, she slipped through the door, a small saucepan clutched in one hand; she did not turn on the light.
‘‘Is the back bad? I couldn’t sleep for thinking about it. Dad should have let you have the money. But you do understand, don’t you? He’s so terribly worried just at present. And it came so conveniently—the rent being due and all,’’ she explained.
‘‘Oh, I’d forgotten about it,’’ he lied. ‘‘But it’s hot. I can’t sleep.’’
‘‘Where’s Giorgio?’’ she asked, suddenly realizing that what she had taken to be the shadow of his sleeping form was only the bolster which Enzo had pushed from beneath his head.
‘‘He couldn’t sleep either, so he went out for a stroll.’’
‘‘I warmed this oil to rub your back. Turn over.’’
‘‘Oh, there’s really no need. It’s not hurting. You’re tired, Mummy. Go back to bed.’’ Enzo could remember how ten, even five years ago, his mother had still been beautiful; but the worries and privations of the war, combined with child-birth and long hours spent underground in the steam and darkness of the laundry, had already spoiled her. At thirty-six, her hair was turning grey; her skin was blotched and sallow, the pores distended; round her neck there were four or five deep wrinkles as if a length of twine had been tightly twisted about it.
‘‘I’m not tired. Turn over, dear.’’ Coming from Siena, she spoke without any of the disagreeably hard and guttural ch’s of her husband and her
When, an hour later, the house was still and Giorgio had slipped out on his outrageous errand, Enzo still lay naked on the crumpled coverlet, his arms crossed behind his head and his eyes staring at the ceiling. He hated them, he hated them all. The money was his, Giorgio and his father had stolen it from him. They didn’t care if his back got worse and worse until he became a cripple. He couldn’t help it if he couldn’t get work. There were thirty-eight thousand unemployed in Florence alone, it was so unjust. So unjust, unjust. And his father had never done a stroke of work for as long as he could remember. Selling guidebooks in the Signoria, that wasn’t work, and he didn’t even do that now. Drinking and smoking and playing cards, and talking politics, politics, politics, while his mother worked herself to the bone. Oh, but she was so weak with him, always had been, had only herself to blame. If only he could get away! Why not to England, or to America? There a chap had a chance. That’s all he wanted, just a chance. Or Tunis. Rodolfo had spoken to him so often about Tunis. One walked through the orange groves and picked oranges, just put up one’s hand.… But the French had turned them all out, they weren’t wanted there, they were wanted nowhere. He was wanted nowhere. Nowhere. Wanted nowhere.… He turned over and lay with his hot cheek against the cold pillow; sweat trickled down between his shoulder-blades while, one hand, hanging over the edge of the bed, rapped on the floorboards. At this moment Giorgio was lying in her arms, here, just here, beneath his fingers. Again he rapped. Oh, it was horrible. He thought back to his first and only visit to the ‘‘casino”, and how afterwards he had pretended to Rodolfo that he had enjoyed it. But of course Giorgio was right. Bella was beautiful. Sitting at the open window, her sewing in her lap, while she gazed down. Such fine wrists and the soft shadows under her cheek-bones, soft shadows between her breasts when she wore that silk dress and leant forward to pick up a reel of cotton.… Feeling an increasing pressure in his loins, he turned over once more on to his back, and stared at the ceiling.…
‘‘Mother! What are you doing?’’
‘‘Sh!’’
Her hair now in pig-tails, she slipped through the door, a small saucepan clutched in one hand; she did not turn on the light.
‘‘Is the back bad? I couldn’t sleep for thinking about it. Dad should have let you have the money. But you do understand, don’t you? He’s so terribly worried just at present. And it came so conveniently—the rent being due and all,’’ she explained.
‘‘Oh, I’d forgotten about it,’’ he lied. ‘‘But it’s hot. I can’t sleep.’’
‘‘Where’s Giorgio?’’ she asked, suddenly realizing that what she had taken to be the shadow of his sleeping form was only the bolster which Enzo had pushed from beneath his head.
‘‘He couldn’t sleep either, so he went out for a stroll.’’
‘‘I warmed this oil to rub your back. Turn over.’’
‘‘Oh, there’s really no need. It’s not hurting. You’re tired, Mummy. Go back to bed.’’ Enzo could remember how ten, even five years ago, his mother had still been beautiful; but the worries and privations of the war, combined with child-birth and long hours spent underground in the steam and darkness of the laundry, had already spoiled her. At thirty-six, her hair was turning grey; her skin was blotched and sallow, the pores distended; round her neck there were four or five deep wrinkles as if a length of twine had been tightly twisted about it.
‘‘I’m not tired. Turn over, dear.’’ Coming from Siena, she spoke without any of the disagreeably hard and guttural ch’s of her husband and her
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