Boredom - Alberto Moravia [67]
I looked at her closely: her face had its usual uncertain, childish expression and she did not even start. “Oh yes,” she said, “I was with an actor called Luciani.”
Even her voice revealed nothing in particular: it was expressionless, neutral, unrelated to innocence or guilt. I asked casually: “Why has he put peroxide on his hair?”
“Because he had to play the part of fair-haired man.”
“You seemed very intimate, judging, at least, from the way you walked.”
“What way?” she inquired, with genuine curiosity.
I felt that words were not adequate to depict the tenderness with which the actor had taken her by the arm. “Get up!” I said.
“But why?”
“Get up!”
She obeyed. Then I took her by the arm and made her walk about the studio for a little, exactly as I had seen the actor do. “There,” I said finally, letting her go again, “that’s the way.”
She went back and sat down on the divan and looked at me for a moment, then she said: “He always does that”—a remark, I felt, that did not at all signify that she and the actor were not in love. “Have you known this Luciani for long?” I asked.
“For a couple of months.”
“D’you see him often?”
“We see each other now and again.”
She got up again and started pulling off her sweater over her head. “You had an appointment with him today?” I asked.
“He wants me to work in the films, and we had to talk about that.”
I looked up at her: she had pulled up her sweater over her head, showing her white armpits with their few long, soft, brown hairs, but her breasts were still hidden, and only the thin, adolescent torso could be seen. Then, with a violent movement, she gave an upward pull and her breasts burst forth: all at once the torso was that of a grown woman, though it still retained a certain slenderness and immaturity. It crossed my mind that she was undressing in order to interrupt an embarrassing interrogation. “Are you going to work in the films?” I asked her.
“I don’t know yet.”
“And afterward where did you go?”
“We went to the Pincio and had some coffee.”
She had seated herself on the divan again now, bare to the waist, as though to answer me better. Meanwhile she was carefully turning back the sleeves of her sweater. “Yes,” I said, “I saw you go up toward the Trinità dei Monti. Perhaps this actor lives close by in Via Sistina, does he?”
“No, he lives in the Parioli district, in Via Archimede.”
“And after your coffee what did you do?”
“We walked about in the Borghese gardens until a short time ago, when I left him to come here.”
I became conscious that I was looking at her with desire; and I realized that I desired her, not so much because she was naked, as because she was lying to me. She appeared to notice my look, and added, quite simply: “Do you want to make love?”
The idea that she was proposing we should make love in order to conceal the fact that she was lying to me made me suddenly furious. I was certain that only a lover could press a woman’s arm in the way Luciani had pressed hers. But now again I avoided mentioning the actor’s name. “No,” I shouted, “I don’t want to make love, I want to know the truth.”
“But what d’you mean, the truth?”
“The truth, whatever it is.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Yesterday you didn’t come to our appointment and you didn’t even let me know that you couldn’t come. Today you want to reduce the number of your visits. I want to know the truth; I want to know what there is behind all this.”
“I’ve already told you: my parents are making trouble.”
Again I felt it on the tip of my tongue to say: “It’s not true, the truth is that you go to bed with Luciani,” but at the same time I felt I would not be capable of saying it. So I remained silent and glum, staring at the floor. Then I felt her hand on my cheek and heard her say: “Are you very sorry not to see me every day?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, forget what I said. We’ll go on as before. Only we shall have to be more careful. We’ll meet at different times, according to which day it is. In any case I’ll telephone you in the morning to let you know, each day, what time we can meet. Are