Contempt - Alberto Moravia [73]
Dinner came to an end in unexpected fashion. After listening sympathetically to Battista, Emilia appeared suddenly to remember me—or rather, to remember my existence—in a manner that once again confirmed my uneasiness. To an insignificant remark from me: “We might go out on the terrace...the moon should have risen by now,” she replied: “I don’t want to go out on the terrace...I’m going to bed. I’m tired”; and without more ado she got up, said good night to us, and went out. Battista did not appear to be surprised at this abrupt departure; in fact—or so it seemed to me—he looked almost pleased at it, as a flattering indication of the havoc he had contrived to create in Emilia’s mind. But I felt my uneasiness to be doubled. And although, as I said, I felt exhausted, although I was well aware that it would have been better to postpone all explanations till next day, in the end I could no longer contain myself. With the excuse that I felt sleepy, I too said good night to Battista and left the room.
16
MY BEDROOM COMMUNICATED with Emilia’s by means of an inside door. Without any delay I went to this door and knocked. Emilia called to me to come in.
She was sitting on the bed, quite still, in a thoughtful attitude. When she saw me, she at once asked, in a weary, irritable voice: “What more do you want of me?”
“Nothing at all,” I answered coldly, for I felt perfectly calm and lucid now, also less tired; “just to wish you good night.”
“Or is it that you want to know what I think of the conversation you had this evening with Battista? Well, if you want to know, I’ll tell you at once: it was not only inopportune but ridiculous as well.”
I took a chair and sat down, then asked: “Why?”
“I don’t understand you,” she said, annoyed, “really I don’t understand you. You set so much store by this script, and then you go and tell the producer that you’re working simply to make money, that you don’t like the work, that your ideal would be to write for the theater, and so on. But don’t you realize that although, out of politeness, he gave in to you this evening, tomorrow he’ll think it over, and he’ll take good care not to give you any more work? Can’t you possibly understand a thing as simple as that?”
So she launched her attack. And although I knew she was doing it in order to conceal other, more important, anxieties from me, I still could not help noticing a certain sincerity in her voice, however painful and humiliating it might be for me. I had promised myself that I would keep calm. But her tone of utter contempt made me flare up in spite of myself. “But it’s the truth,” I cried all of a sudden; “I don’t like this job, I’ve never liked it. And it’s by no means certain that I’m going to do it.”
“Of course you’re going to do it.” Never had she despised me so much as at this moment.
I set my teeth and tried to control myself. “Perhaps I may not do it,” I said in a normal voice. “I had intended to do it even as late as this morning...but certain things have happened during the course of today which will cause me, in all probability, to announce to Battista, not later than tomorrow, that I am giving it up.”
I uttered this sibylline remark deliberately, with a feeling almost of vindictiveness. She had tortured me so much, and now I wanted to torture her by alluding to what I had seen through the window, without, however, speaking of it directly or precisely. She looked at me fixedly, and then asked in a quiet voice: “What things have happened?”
“Plenty of things.”
“But what?”
She was insistent: it seemed to me that she sincerely desired me to accuse her, to reprove her for her unfaithfulness. But I continued to be evasive. “They’re things to do with the film...things between myself and Battista...there’s no need to mention them.”
“Why don’t you want to mention them?”
“Because they wouldn’t interest you.”
“Possibly; but you won’t have the courage to give up the job. You’ll do it all right.”
I could not quite make out whether this remark showed merely the usual contempt, or whether it contained an unspecified