Two Friends (12 page)

This time she said nothing and simply shrugged.

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She put on her usual brown coat. Drily, she said, “Let’s go.”

They traversed the dank cooking smells lingering in the hallway and came to the foyer. When they were on the stairs, he felt a wave of disconsolate passion and took Lalla by the waist: “Are you still angry with me?” he asked.

She looked up at him. “No … why?”

“Because of what I said about the dress.”

“Of course not, don’t be silly.”

Sergio felt mortified, though he did not quite know why. His eyes welled with tears. He whispered, “I’m at a difficult time in my life, you know that … I need you to love me very much.”

“I do.”

They separated and began to go down the stairs. Now that the turmoil of the moment had passed—a turmoil he could not explain—Sergio had become his lucid self again. He knew that this invitation was important and realized that in the duel he was about to fight with his friend, every false step could be fatal. He reviewed his arguments in his mind, as he did before speaking at Party meetings, reexamining his logic and approach, and anticipating his friend’s counterarguments. Just as when he prepared to speak in public, he felt lucid, determined, cool, and self-assured. He knew that this coolness and lucidity, mixed with a touch of cynicism, formed a kind of streamlined, utilitarian structure planted squarely upon a deep foundation of enthusiasm, hope, and faith: his enthusiasm, his hope, and his faith in the Communist Party and its destiny. One could build any kind of edifice upon such a foundation, he reflected, no matter what materials one worked with. The foundation was solid and sound.

He was so distracted and lost in thought that he almost forgot where they were, standing at the bus stop, waiting for a bus to carry them through the city. His actions had become almost automatic; his mind was submerged in thought, like an atmosphere that did not thwart action but nevertheless impeded his awareness of his actions. A while later they were

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walking down an empty boulevard with villas and gardens on either side, in an elegant neighborhood, one of the oldest in the city. “Here it is,” Lalla said, pointing at the number on the gate.

“You’ve been here before,” Sergio said with a start, surprised by her certainly.

“No, I just know the number,” she responded simply.

It was a black iron gate, bolted with an iron bar on the inside. Tall, robust trees, revealing the garden’s age, protruded above the pillars of the boundary wall, which were surmounted by decorative urns. Lalla reached out a gloved hand and pressed the button of the gleaming brass doorbell. Sergio looked at her and then turned to gaze into the street. It was truly an elegant street; all around there were high walls with tall trees looming over them, and the façades of a few imposing villas. Cars were parked here and there, all of them luxury models. It was a gray, cloudy day, and humid; it had been raining, and there were large puddles on the sidewalks. The dark, looming sky seemed to threaten more rain. “A mild, average day,” he thought, mechanically, and for some reason he could not explain, he shuddered, as if struck by a bad omen. He realized that the sangfroid he had enjoyed during their long walk, and which had made
him almost forget his task, was now submerged beneath a feverish, dreamlike ardor. His cheeks were burning; his heart was pounding. “What the hell is wrong with me?” he wondered.

“What did you say?” Lalla asked, coming closer.

He had said these words aloud. This vexed him. “Nothing … I didn’t say anything.”

“Yes you did … you said: What the hell?”

“I didn’t say anything. I was just thinking aloud.”

The gate opened and a butler in a striped jacket invited them in, stepping aside to let them pass. Sergio and his lover followed the butler through the garden. As they could guess from the tall trees looming over the wall, it appeared to be very old, filled with mature bushes, trees, and thick creepers. Once they were actually in the house, Sergio’s heart began to beat normally again, and his cheeks no longer burned. He was glad: once again, he felt cool and in control. They entered a vast anteroom decorated with wooden chests and weapons mounted on the walls, then another, and finally, they arrived in a large sitting room. It was dark inside: the walls were hung with rich fabrics;

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heavy velvet curtains covered the windows. Like the two previous rooms, this one was furnished in a style that had gone out of fashion twenty or thirty years earlier. There were carpets, clusters of dark armchairs and couches—many them old and threadbare—a multitude of paintings on the walls, large vases, and imposing bric-a-brac on every surface. The room had an air of stale, worn-out luxury, empty and tired, as if it had been decorated according to tastes and a way of life that no longer existed. The air was murky, even though it was still early in the day. “It’s
too dark in here, I can’t see,” Lalla exclaimed, traversing the room confidently and switching on the central chandelier, a bronze object with three arms. Sergio noted her self-assuredness, finding it disagreeable, and once again suspected that Lalla had been in this house before. Again, he banished the thought, convincing himself that it was impossible and absurd.

They sat across from each other in two deep armchairs positioned in a corner of the sitting room and waited, without speaking. The house was immersed in silence. The walls were thick and insulated; they could hear nothing from the tree-filled garden, except a vague scraping which seemed to come from downstairs. Perhaps someone was poking around in the cellar. It was hot, almost too hot, and, like the house, the heat felt old, stale, impure.

After a long wait they heard steps, and Maurizio appeared in a doorway at the other end of the room. Sergio observed something he had never noticed before: Maurizio had a slight limp, almost imperceptible but just pronounced enough to catch the eye. Even so, his gait was not without grace. He was tall, as Sergio noted bitterly, with wide shoulders, and a strong, dynamic presence. His face appeared slightly older than that of a twenty-eight-year-old man: it was somber, with large black eyes, a prominent nose, a dark mustache, and very white teeth. His features were striking, vigorously outlined. He had large hands and feet, and emanated an air of simplicity and energy. But underneath he was actually extremely reflective, prudent, and cautious, as well as extraordinarily pleasant, affable, and polished in his manner. This mildness was surprising in a man with such
a vigorous, almost brutal appearance. He was like a giant who is able to hold a butterfly between two fingers without hurting it, Sergio reflected. He knew that he was attracted to these contrasts in Maurizio, that they were perhaps the principal reason for his attraction. Maurizio greeted Sergio and Lalla in a loud,

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booming voice that was also perfectly courteous, like a bear who has been trained to bow to guests. “Please forgive me for asking you to travel all the way to this gloomy old house. I thought we might be more comfortable here than at a café.”

“We’re very comfortable!” Lalla exclaimed, in a friendly tone.

“You’re limping,” Sergio said, out of the blue, as Maurizio crisscrossed the room, moving chairs so that they could sit more comfortably.

“Yes, I’ve had a limp since ’43,” his friend answered, casually. “I was shot in the leg.”

“Where?”

“In Africa … I was a Blackshirt,” he said, watching Sergio, as if to judge his reaction. Sergio couldn’t help crying out: “You were a Blackshirt?”

“Yes … I was eighteen … you know … the errors of youth,” Maurizio said, in a flippant tone that seemed in stark contrast with his rich voice. “I’ve never mentioned it … I was a true believer … and then I was a prisoner of war … I was held for three years.”

“Where?”

“In the United States.”

“So you were a Fascist,” Sergio repeated, almost in disbelief.

“A rabid Fascist … as Fascist as one can be … I idolized Mussolini, and I even admired Hitler.”

He invited them to another area of the sitting room: “There’s no light over there … it feels like one is being punished … Come sit here.” They moved to another group of armchairs and couches. Sergio sat in an armchair, and Lalla on the couch next to Maurizio. He crossed his legs. Sergio noticed a small detail: Maurizio was wearing a dark blue suit with pinstripes, like a stock character in a movie. Which character? The international swindler, the sharp-dressing shyster, the professional seducer.

Soon after they sat down, the butler returned with a large silver tray carrying a bottle of whiskey, a siphon, and an ice bucket, as well as olives and some crackers. In silence, he placed everything on the coffee table in front of them. Sergio noticed the massive, antiquated design of the silver tray. This was a bourgeois household, he reflected, but of the old-fashioned kind,

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typical of the Fascist period: wealthy, opulent, solid, massive. “I asked the butler to bring us some whiskey,” Maurizio said, pouring a glass. “I know that you and Lalla enjoy it, and I do too … but if you prefer coffee, tea, or a sweet liqueur, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“No, whiskey is fine,” Lalla said, smiling.

Maurizio poured the whiskey, picked up a few cubes of ice with the tongs and dropped them into the glasses, adding some seltzer water. Sergio noted that he did this with a surprising grace for such a bear-like man. He also noticed that Maurizio had poured himself a small amount of whiskey, about half what he served them. “Don’t you drink?” he asked.

“Not much. I drank too much as a young man, and now I have to be careful … I have trouble with my liver.”

He took a sip, refusing the cigarette that Sergio offered: “I don’t smoke.”

“You have no vices, it seems,” Lalla said in a frivolous tone that irritated Sergio. “You don’t drink, you don’t smoke …”

Maurizio did not respond. Sergio lit a cigarette in order to give himself a more nonchalant air. He felt that he had to move the conversation as quickly as possible away from this generic chitchat to the subject he had come to discuss. But he realized that his cheeks were once again burning and his heart was beating furiously. He picked up his glass, took a big gulp to steady his nerves, and said, looking straight into Maurizio’s eyes: “Shall we pick up our discussion where we left off the other day?”

Lalla began to laugh: “How single-minded you are … You haven’t even given him a chance to catch his breath …”

“No, no,” Maurizio said, in a friendly voice, “by all means, let’s talk … after all, isn’t that why you’ve come? Let’s continue where we left off the other day.”

Sergio took another gulp of whiskey and realized that he had almost finished the glass. Maurizio filled it again. Sergio thanked him in a vexed tone and began, “We had reached, shall we say, the negative side of the question … You were saying the other day that your social circle, which you have always been a part of and which you belong to by birth and by wealth—in other words the bourgeoisie—disgusts

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and bores you, and that you find it insufferable.”

“Exactly,” Maurizio said, very serious. “I find it empty, incompetent, corrupt, stupid, and quite worthless …”

“And you said that you’ve felt this way for a long time, but that you used to believe that all people were the same. Then, you realized that these defects were not human defects but rather social defects, and this realization led you to distance yourself from these people.”

“Yes.”

“And you said that this social circle does not deserve to survive … not because it is unjust for a few to control so much wealth but rather because it is unjust that these few, who have so much wealth, should be so contemptible.”

“Yes.”

“And what did I say to you?”

“You said that I was a Communist even if I didn’t know it.”

“Exactly,” Sergio said, somewhat taken aback by his friend’s calm. “That’s exactly what I said.”

“But then,” Maurizio interjected, fiddling with his glass, “I said that it wasn’t true … I know everything about Communism that a person like myself can know … Didn’t I say that?”

“Yes, it’s true.”

There was a pause. Sergio’s cheeks were still burning. He attributed this to the whiskey. Even his sight seemed to be obscured by the tension he felt. He couldn’t see Lalla, and could only barely make out Maurizio’s face. Sighing, he continued: “Yes, that’s where we were when you suddenly stood up and walked off. Actually, I must admit that it crossed my mind that you left because you had no more arguments with which to defend yourself and wanted to escape our discussion. But then I changed my mind when you called the next morning.”

Maurizio said nothing. Lalla was sitting very close to Maurizio, smoking, looking at each of them in turn. She had unbuttoned her coat. She got up abruptly. “I hope you don’t mind if I take this off. It’s very hot in here.” And without waiting for a response, she removed her coat. Maurizio poured more whiskey into her glass. He returned to his seat and once again faced Sergio, who took a puff of his cigarette and said: “In other words, looking at the issue from the negative side, you yourself have said that you are dangling

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from the branch of the bourgeoisie like an overripe fruit, about to drop … Nothing keeps you there, not even money …”

“Least of all, money,” Maurizio said, completely calm.

Lalla interrupted: “Wait a minute … Are you saying you would be willing to give up this house, your butler, your old habits, and go to work?”

“I already work,” Maurizio said, without looking at her, “in agriculture.”

“You mean, you manage your properties.”

“Actually, I’m a land surveyor and assessor …,” he said, calmly. “But of course I also manage my properties, which are quite vast.”

Sergio felt impatient. He waited for this parenthesis to close before continuing. “As we were saying, from the negative point of view, you are ripe, about to drop from the branch … so let’s move on to the positive side of the question: you claim to understand our ideas, our aspirations, our doctrine, and all the rest.”

“More or less, yes.” There was a moment of silence. “Well enough, anyway,” he added in an ambiguous
tone. “You don’t need to repeat them … it would be pointless.”