Boredom - Alberto Moravia [109]
“Ah, you’ve kept an account, then.”
“Of course.”
“Well, Mother, I don’t feel like telling you anything more—not for the moment, anyhow; but do answer me, once and for all: are you going to give me this money—yes or no?”
My mother looked at me, and evidently I must have seemed sufficiently determined or even desperate to make her feel that she could not pull the cords of her indiscretion any tighter. Pretending to stifle a yawn, she said: “Very well, then. Here is the key; go into the bathroom, you know where the safe is and you know the combination. Open it and you’ll see a red envelope; take it out and bring it here.”
I rose and went into the bathroom, turned the hook and opened the panel of tiles, and then the door of the safe. On the top of the rolls of bonds there was an orange-red envelope. I took it out and weighed it in my hand: judging by its weight, I calculated that it must contain at least half a million lire in ten-thousand-lire notes. I went back and handed the envelope to my mother, who was now sitting, thoroughly tired and sleepy, on the edge of the bed. I watched her as she opened the envelope and drew out, with the tips of her fingers, one, two, three, four, five ten-thousand-lire notes. “Here, take these in the meantime,” she said.
“But in the envelope,” I could not help exclaiming, “there must be at least five hundred thousand lire.”
“For that matter, there are even more. But that’s all I can give you today. Now go and put back the envelope, close the safe, bring me the key and then leave me. I’m extremely tired and I want to rest.”
I did as I was told. But, as I replaced the envelope in the safe, I could not help being surprised at the confidence shown me by my mother, who was usually so mistrustful. After all, I could easily open the envelope again and help myself to some more money. But I realized at once that the reason why my mother trusted me was that I had always behaved in such a way as to inspire confidence in her—ever since I was born—owing to my lack of interest in money, in fact my contempt for it, which was perhaps a little ostentatious but anyhow perfectly serious; and I realized also that it was not my mother but I myself who had changed, for I now felt myself quite capable of stealing the money I needed to pay Cecilia, and I had a presentiment that, if she did not give me enough, I would end by stealing it in sober fact. Yes, I had changed, but my mother had not yet awakened to this change and continued to trust me as she had done in the past. I closed the door of the safe, replaced the tile panel and went back into the bedroom. My mother was lying on her back again now, across the bed, her arm over her eyes.
I stooped and placed the key in her hand, but her fingers did not grasp it and it fell on the pillow. Then with my lips I lightly touched the thin, painted cheek and said: “Good-bye, Mother.” She answered with a faint groan: this time she had really fallen asleep. I tiptoed out of the room.
I decided to divide the fifty thousand lire into two parts; twenty thousand lire for myself and thirty thousand for Cecilia, to provide the now indispensable justification of venality for her next visit. But I felt that Cecilia eluded me in proportion to the amount I paid her; the more I paid her, the less did she seem to be mine. Furthermore, to my anguish at not possessing her there was now added the anguish of suspecting that perhaps she let herself be possessed by my rival. More and more, indeed, was I tormented by the thought that Luciani succeeded in possessing Cecilia in earnest, and precisely by means of the simple sexual act which had been shown, in my case, to be so insufficient. I feared that the actor, less intellectual and more a creature of instinct than myself, had succeeded where I had failed. And, reflecting that possession consists not so much in the sexual act itself as in the effect of the act upon the person who was its object,