Boredom - Alberto Moravia [110]
“Did you see Luciani yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Did you just see him, or did you make love together?”
“You know that when I say I’ve seen him, I mean that we’ve made love.”
“Did you do it much?”
“Just as usual.”
“Do you usually do it much?”
“Some days more, some days less.”
“Which do you like best, doing it with him or with me?”
“You’re two different things.”
“What do you mean?”
“Different.”
“But what actually is the difference?”
“He’s kinder than you.”
“Do you like his being kind?”
“It’s his natural way.”
“But do you like it or don’t you?”
“If I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t put up with it.”
“Aren’t there any other differences between him and me?”
“Yes, he talks while we’re making love.”
“And what does he say to you?”
“The things that people say when they’re fond of you.”
“I’ve said those things to you, sometimes.”
“No, you don’t say anything. The only time you spoke, you called me a bitch.”
“Did you mind?”
“No, I didn’t mind.”
“But you prefer the things he says to you?”
“When I’m with him I like the things he says to me, and when I’m with you I like your being silent.”
“But tell me, what do you feel when he has you?”
“There are some things one can’t explain.”
“Do you have a stronger feeling than you do with me?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I’ve never thought about it.”
“Think about it now, then.”
“Well, I feel he loves me.”
“Do you like that?”
“All women like to feel they’re loved.”
“Then it is a stronger feeling than the feeling you have with me.”
“But with you too, I feel that you love me.”
“And you like it?”
“Of course I like it.”
“More, or less, than with Luciani?”
“They’re two different things.”
“Yes, I see. Now tell me: if for some reason you couldn’t go on seeing Luciani, would you mind? Would you miss him?”
“It hasn’t happened yet, so how can I tell?”
“But if it did happen?”
“Then I should see. I think I would.”
“And if you couldn’t go on seeing me?”
“That hasn’t happened, either.”
“Well, try and imagine.”
“When I told you we ought to part, I remember I felt sorry.”
“Very sorry?”
“How can one measure such things? I was sorry.”
“Well, tell me then, are you more fond of me or of him?”
“You’re two different things.”
Or again, seeing that I had no success in squeezing information out of Cecilia on the subject of her feelings during physical love, I would try introducing a more innocent note into my investigations. “Did you go out with Luciani yesterday?”
“Yes, we went out to dinner together.”
“Where did you go?”
“To a restaurant in Trastevere.”
“You always refused to go out with me in the evening.”
“I hadn’t any excuse. You can only have drawing lessons in the daytime. But with Luciani I can always say he wants to introduce me to a film producer.”
“But you can’t make me believe your parents would have objected. I’ve met your parents.”
“Mother—no, she wouldn’t have objected. But Daddy would have. He was so sick, I couldn’t go against him.”
“Well, never mind. So you went to a restaurant in Trastevere?”
“Yes.”
“What did you talk about?”
“All sorts of things.”
“Who talked most, he or you?”
“You know I like listening.”
“Well, what did he talk about?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Now, try hard to remember; after all, it only happened yesterday evening.”
“But I haven’t any memory, you know that. I don’t even remember the things you said to me five minutes ago.”
“All right, then, never mind. What was the restaurant like?”
“It was a restaurant like lots of others.”
“What was it called?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it big or small, crowded or empty, with one room or several rooms, smart or countrified?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, I didn’t look at it.”
“While you were talking, did you hold hands on the table?”
“Yes. How did you guess that?”
“Did you like his holding your hand?”
“Yes.”
“A lot or a little?”
“I liked it, I don’t know how much.”
“Were your knees touching, under the table?”
“No, because we were sitting side by