Contempt - Alberto Moravia [62]
I turned and saw, clear-cut in the strong morning light, the two figures of Battista and Emilia, at the point where the dunes were highest. Battista was coming quickly down towards us, waving his hand in greeting, and Emilia was following more slowly, looking down at the ground. Battista’s whole bearing showed a cheerfulness and an assurance even greater than usual; while that of Emilia seemed to me to exude discontent, perplexity and an indefinable disgust.
Rather surprised, I said at once to Battista: “We thought you were far ahead...at Formia, at least, or even farther.”
Battista answered, in a self-possessed voice: “We went a long way around...I wanted to show your wife a property of mine near Rome where I’m building a villa...then we found a couple of grade crossings closed.” He turned towards Rheingold and asked: “Everything all right, Rheingold? Been talking about the Odyssey?”
“Everything all right,” replied Rheingold in the same telegraphic style, from beneath the peak of his cloth cap. Obviously Battista’s arrival annoyed him, and he would have preferred to continue the discussion with me.
“Splendid, that’s wonderful”; and Battista took us both confidentially by the arm and moved away, drawing us towards Emilia who had stopped at a little distance along the beach. “And now,” he went on, with a gallantry that seemed to me insufferable, “now, fair Signora, it’s up to you to decide. Shall we lunch at Naples, or shall we lunch at Formia? You must choose.”
Emilia gave a start and said: “You three must choose...it’s all the same to me.”
“No, no, goodness gracious, it’s the ladies who have to decide.”
“Well then, let’s lunch at Naples; I’m not hungry now.”
“All right, Naples let it be. Fish soup with sughillo. A band playing O sole mio...” There could be no doubt of Battista’s cheerfulness.
“What time does the steamer leave for Capri?” asked Rheingold.
“At half past two. We’d better get on,” replied Battista. He left us and went off towards the road.
Rheingold followed and, catching him up, walked beside him. Emilia, on the other hand, remained where she was for a moment, pretending to look at the sea, as though to allow them to go on ahead of us. But, as soon as I came up to her, she took me by the arm and said in a low voice: “I’m coming in your car now...and please don’t contradict me.”
I was struck by her tone of urgency. “Why, what’s happened?”
“Nothing...only that Battista drives too fast.”
We walked up the path in silence. When we reached the road, near the two stationary cars, Emilia moved in a determined manner towards mine.
“Hi,” cried Battista, “isn’t the Signora coming with me?”
I turned: Battista, was standing beside the open door of his car, in the sun-filled road. Rheingold remained in uncertainty between the two cars, looking at us. Emilia, without raising her voice, said quietly: “I’m going with my husband now. We’ll all meet at Naples.”
I expected Battista to give in without any more ado. But, to my slight surprise, he came running over to us. “Signora, you’re going to be with your husband for two months, at Capri...and I,” he added in a low voice, so as not to be overheard by the director, “I’ve had just a bit too much of Rheingold in Rome, and I assure you he’s not amusing. Surely your husband doesn’t mind you coming with me, do you, Molteni?”
I could not but answer, although it was an effort to me: “No, not at all. But Emilia says you drive too fast.”
“I’ll go at a snail’s space,” promised Battista, facetiously but with warmth. “But I do beg of you not to leave me alone with Rheingold.” He lowered his voice again. “If you knew what a bore he is. He talks of nothing but films.”
I don’t know what came over me at that moment. Perhaps I thought it was not worth while annoying Battista for so frivolous a reason. Without giving myself time to reflect, I said: “Come on Emilia...won’t you do this to please Battista?... He’s quite right, anyhow,” I added with a smile, “there’s nothing you can talk about to Rheingold except films.”
“Exactly,” confirmed