Boredom - Alberto Moravia [103]
She did not appear to grasp the allusion contained in the word “still”; she answered indifferently: “Just as you like. If you want us to go on, I don’t mind. If you want us to part company, let’s do so.”
And so, I reflected, not without astonishment, the money she had received and accepted had sufficed for one single time only; and it had failed to suggest to her listless imagination the alluring prospect of her being able to earn more in the future, in the same manner. “But,” I asked, “if you go on seeing me, why would you do so?”
“Because I’m fond of you.”
“If I asked you to give up Luciani, would you do it?”
“Oh no, not that.”
I was hurt, in spite of myself, at the firmness of her refusal. “You might answer me with a little less eagerness,” I said.
“I’m sorry.”
“So from now on I’ve got to go halves with Luciani?”
She seemed to become more animated, as though I had at last touched a sensitive spot. “But what does it matter to you?” she said. “Why are you so worried about it? I’ll come and see you as usual; nothing will be changed.”
I repeated to myself: “Nothing will be changed,” saying to myself that for her it was the truth. She was gazing at me now with a curious, almost regretful expression. At last she said: “You know, I should be sorry to leave you.”
I was struck by the undoubted sincerity of these words. “Would you really be sorry?” I asked.
“Yes, I’ve grown accustomed to you.”
“But you would be equally sorry to leave Luciani, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“You’ve grown accustomed to him too?”
“You’re two different things.”
I remained silent for a moment. How could we be two different things, seeing that Cecilia asked the same thing from both of us, which was in fact the mere physical relationship? “So you want to have us both?” I asked.
She nodded her head in a mysterious silence, full of impudent, childish covetousness. Then she said: “What fault is it of mine if I like being with both of you? You each of you give me something different.”
I felt tempted to ask her: “I give you money and Luciani gives you love—isn’t that so?” But I restrained myself, realizing that it was still too early for a question of that sort. Before I asked it, I would have to get to the bottom of her newly discovered venality. The fact that she had accepted money just this once might not have any significance. With a mingled feeling of anger and weariness, I said: “Very well then, you shall have both of us. We’ll have a try at it. But you’ll see yourself that it’s impossible to love two men at the same time.”
“Not at all; I tell you it’s perfectly possible.” She appeared to be extremely glad at having solved the problem of our relationship; stooping, she lightly touched my cheek with her lips and went off, telling me that she would telephone me next morning, as she did every day.
I turned to the wall and closed my eyes.
8
I HAD NOW to prove to myself that Cecilia was venal. I recalled all the times I had given money to prostitutes and told myself that if Cecilia was really venal I would have the same feeling for her that I had for these women after I had paid them—a feeling of possession, but of a possession depreciated and superfluous, a feeling that the person who had received the money was reduced to the status of an inanimate object, a feeling that, owing to this commercial valuation, she had forfeited all true value. It was only a step from this feeling to the sense of boredom which would liberate me from Cecilia and from my love for her. Certainly it was a degrading kind of possession, for the one who was possessed as well as for the one who possessed; and without doubt I should have preferred a different kind, which would have permitted of my parting from Cecilia