Contempt - Alberto Moravia [27]
But man is always ready to hope, even when convinced that there is no hope. I had had a clear proof that Emilia no longer loved me, and yet there was still a doubt in my mind—or rather, a hope—that I might have placed a rash interpretation upon an incident which, fundamentally, was devoid of importance. All at once I said to myself that I must not be precipitate; that I must make her tell me herself that she no longer loved me; that only she could provide me with the proofs that I still lacked...These thoughts pursued each other swiftly through my mind as I sat on the divan staring into vacancy. Then the door opened and Emilia came in again.
She came over to the sofa and lay down again, behind me, and took up the magazine. Then, without turning, I said: “In a few moments Battista is going to telephone and make a proposal for me to do another script...a very important script.”
“Well, you must be pleased, aren’t you?” she said in her calm voice.
“With this script,” I went on, “I shall be able to earn a lot of money...anyhow, enough to pay two installments on the lease.”
This time she said nothing. I continued: “This script, moreover, is important for me because, if I do it, I shall have others to do afterwards...this is to be a big film.”
At last, in the detached voice of a person who is reading and who speaks without looking up from the page, she asked: “What film is it?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. I was silent for a moment, and then, in a rather emphatic tone, I added: “But I’ve decided to refuse this job.”
“And why?” Her voice was still quiet, indifferent.
I rose, walked round the sofa, and came and sat down in front of Emilia. She was holding the magazine in her hand, but when she saw me sit down opposite her, she lowered it and looked at me. “Because,” I said with full sincerity, “I, as you know, hate this work and do it only for love of you...in order to pay the installments on this flat, which means so much to you or seems to mean so much to you. But now I know for certain that you no longer love me...and so all this is useless.”
She was looking at me with her eyes wide open, but she said nothing. “You don’t love me any longer,” I went on, “and I shall not go on doing these jobs. As for the flat...well, I shall mortgage it or sell the lease. The fact is, I can’t go on like this any longer and I feel that the moment has come to tell you so. So now you know. In a short time Battista will telephone and I shall tell him to go to the devil.”
Now I had said it, and the moment had therefore arrived for the explanation I had so long both feared and desired. At this thought I felt almost relieved, and I looked at Emilia with a new frankness as I awaited her reply. She was silent for a little time before she answered me. Obviously my forthright declaration had surprised her. In the end, indeed, rather cautiously and precisely as if she wanted to gain time, she asked: “What makes you think I don’t love you any more?”
“Everything,” I answered with passionate vehemence.
“For instance?”
“Tell me first of all whether it’s true or not.”
She insisted, obstinately: “No, you tell me what makes you think that.”
“Everything,” I repeated; “your way of talking to me, of looking at me, the way you behave to me. Everything. A month ago you even insisted on our sleeping apart. You wouldn’t have wanted that, once upon a time!”
She looked at me, irresolute; and then, suddenly, I saw her eyes light up with rapid decision. She had, in that precise moment, I thought, determined upon the attitude to be taken with me, and now would not deviate from her decision, whatever I might say or do. At last she replied, quite gently: “But I assure you, I swear to you. I cannot sleep with