The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [22]
“Let me see you,” Mosca said, “let me look at you.” He tried to lift her face, but she kept it against him. “It's all right,” he said, “I wanted to surprise you.” She kept sobbing, and all he could do was'wait, looking around the room, the narrow bed, the old-fashioned wardrobe, and on the dresser, enlarged, framed, the photos he had given her. The light from the single table lamp was dim, a depressing, weak yellow, the walls and ceiling sagged inward from the weight of the ruins above them.
Hella lifted her face—she was half-laughing, half-crying. “Ah, you, you,” she said. “Why didn't you write? Why didn't you let me know?”
“I wanted to surprise you,” he said again. He kissed her gently, and lying against him, she said in a weak, incoherent voice, “When I saw you I thought you were dead or I was dreaming or crazy, I don't know, and I look so terrible, I just washed my hair.” She looked down at the shapeless, faded house dress and then lifted her face to him again.
He saw now the dark circles under her eyes, as if the pigment from the rest of her face had been drained and held there to stain the skin almost black. The hair under his hand was lifeless, still wet, her body against him hard and angular.
She smiled and he saw the gap along the side of her mouth. He caressed her cheek and asked, “And this?”
Hella looked embarrassed. “The baby,” she said. “I lost two teeth.” She smiled at him, asked like a child, “Do I look very ugly?”
Mosca shook his head slowly. “No,” he said, “no.” And then remembering. “What about the baby, did you get rid of it?”
“No,” Hella said, “it was born too soon; it only lived a few hours. I just left the hospital a month ago.”
And then, because she knew his disbelief, his lack of faith, she went to the dresser and pulled out a bundle of papers tied together with old string. She leafed through it and gave him four official documents.
“Read them,” she said, not hurt or angry, knowing that in the world and time in which they lived, she had to give proof, that there was no absolute trust.
The official stamps and seals of the different bureaus dispelled his doubt. Almost regretfully he accepted the fact that she had not lied.
Hella went to the wardrobe and took out a pile of clothing. She held each one up, the little undershirts, blouses, the small trousers. Some of the materials and colors were familiar to Mosca. And then he understood that because there was nothing else to be had, she had cut up her dresses, even her underclothing, and sewed them together to fit a smaller body.
“I knew it would be a boy,” she said. And then suddenly Mosca was very angry. He was angry that she had given the color from her face, the flesh along her hips and shoulders, the teeth, the clothing so cleverly cut and fitted together and that she had received nothing in return. And he knew that what had brought him back was his own need and not hers.
“That was silly,” he said, “that was goddamn silly.”
Mosca sat on the bed and Hella sat beside him. For a moment they were both embarrassed and stared at the bare table, the only chair, the indented walls, knd sagging ceiling, and then moving slowly, as if taking part in an ancient tribal ritual, like heathens cementing their relationship with a vague and fearful god, not knowing if the ceremony would bring disaster or good fortune, they stretched out on the narrow bed and came together, he finally with a passion inspired by drink, guilt, remorse, and she with love, tenderness, and an absolute faith that this consummation was good, that it would bring happiness to them both. And she accepted the pain given to her not-yet-healed body, the cruelty of his passion, his lack of faith in her and in himself and in all things, knowing the final truth that, of all the human beings that he had known, he had need of her, her faith, her body, her belief and love for him.
five
That second summer of peace went by quickly for Mosca. The work at the air base was so light, it seemed as if he were there only to keep Eddie Cassin