Boredom - Alberto Moravia [15]
Staring absent-mindedly at the car, I murmured: “Just as you like.”
“Yes, do try it, especially as I have to confirm my purchase of it with the dealer.”
I said nothing; I opened the car door and got in. My mother got in beside me and, as I started the engine and lowered the gear lever, she informed me in her usual intimate, scientific tone of voice: “It has a convertible top. The dealer assured me that in the winter not the smallest breath of wind can get in. In any case, there’s the heater. In the summer you can put the top down; it’s more amusing to drive without the top.”
“Yes, it’s more amusing.”
“D’you like the color? I thought it was lovely, so much so that I didn’t even want to see any other. The dealer told me that the metallization of the paint is an expensive process but the effect is smarter.”
“It’s much more delicate,” I said vaguely.
“When it’s tarnished, you can have it repainted.”
The car gave a very loud roar, just like a racing car; then I drove around the open space and moved off swiftly down the drive. The car was very powerful and very sensitive, as I could tell when I felt it leap forward beneath my feet at the slightest pressure on the accelerator. We went out through the iron gates, and I could not help recalling the sensation I had had a short time before when, on my way up to the villa, I had felt I was re-entering the womb that had given me birth. And now? Now I was inside that same womb and I should never leave it again.
Outside the gates, I turned to the right and went up the Via Appia in the direction of the Castelli. The dull, sultry day had caused a dark, shifting, volatile ring of thundery-looking clouds to form thickly over Monte Cavo; all along the Via Appia the pines and cypresses, the ruins, the hedges, the fields were dim with dust and burnt up by the heat of summer. My mother went on praising the car to me in a casual, conversational manner, as though she were gradually discovering its merits. Without saying a word, I drove on up the Via Appia as far as the fork, bore to the left, very fast all the time, went down to the Via Appia Nuova, turned around at the traffic signals and came back again.
“What d’you think of it?” asked my mother, as we came again into the Via Appia Antica.
“I think it’s a splendid car in every way. Anyhow, I knew it already.”
“What do you mean, when it’s a new type that’s scarcely been out a month?”
“I mean, I already knew cars of this make.”
We reached the gates, the drive with the cypresses, the villa with the open space in front of it. I did a half turn, stopped, pulled up the hand brake, and then, after sitting motionless and silent for a moment, turned abruptly to my mother and said: “Thank you.”
“I bought it,” she answered, “mainly because I liked it so much. If I hadn’t bought it for you, I should have bought it for myself.”
It appeared to me, however, that she was expecting something more—to judge, at least, from her discontented, exacting expression. “I do really like it very much; thank you,” I said again. And, leaning forward, I lightly touched with my lips the dry, rough make-up on her thin cheek. In order, perhaps, to conceal the satisfaction that my affectionate gesture gave her, she said: “The dealer suggested that before using the car you should read the instructions for driving and maintenance,” and she opened a compartment in the instrument panel and showed me a yellow handbook; “because these cars are delicate and easily damaged.”
“Yes, I’ll read it.”
“With this car you could go touring. For instance, when the autumn comes, you could go to Spain, or to France.”
“I’ll go in