Contempt (20 page)

Why had I said these things instead of the others that were on the tip of my tongue and that concerned the conduct of Battista towards my wife? I did not know; perhaps owing to a sudden weariness of overstrained nerves; perhaps because in this way I expressed, indirectly, my desperation at Emilia’s unfaithfulness which I felt to be somehow connected with the commercial and subordinate character of my work. But, just as Battista and Emilia had remained untroubled by my ominous preamble, so now they failed to show any relief at all at the wretched confession of weakness that had followed it. Battista said seriously: “But I’m sure, Molteni, you’ll write a very fine script.”

Having started out on the wrong track, I was now committed to it to the bitter end. I answered in a tone of exasperation: “I am afraid I didn’t make myself clear. I am a writer for the theater, Battista, not one of the large number of professional writers of film-scripts...and this script, however fine, however perfect it is, will be, for me, merely a script...a thing— allow me to say frankly—that I do simply in order to earn money...Now at the age of twenty-seven one has what are commonly called ideals—and my ideal is to write for the theater!...Why am I unable to do so? Because the world to-day is so constructed that no one can do what he would like to do, and he is forced, instead, to do what others wish him to do. Because the question of money always intrudes—into what we do, into what we are, into what we wish to become, into our work, into our highest aspirations, even into our relations with the people we love!”

I realized that I had become over-excited and that my eyes had actually filled with tears. And I was ashamed and in my heart I cursed my excess of feeling which encouraged me to make confidences of this kind to the man who, a few moments earlier, had successfully tried to entice my wife away from me. But Battista was not put out of countenance for so small a matter. “You know, Molteni,” he said, “hearing you talk, I seem to see myself again at the time when I was your age.”

“Oh, really?” I stammered, disconcerted.

“Yes, I was extremely poor,” pursued Battista, helping himself to more wine, “and I also had, as you say, ideals...What those ideals were, I could not now say, and perhaps I did not know even then...but I had them nevertheless...or perhaps I did not have this or that ideal, but Ideals with a capital I... Then I met a man to whom I owe a very great deal, if only for having taught me certain things.” Battista paused a moment, with characteristic, heavy solemnity, and I could not help calling to mind, almost involuntarily, that the man to whom he was alluding was without doubt a certain film producer, forgotten now, but famous in the days of the early Italian cinema, with whom, and under whose orders, Battista had indeed started out upon his prosperous career; a man who, however, as far as I knew, was to be admired for nothing except his capacity for making money. “To that man,” Battista went on, “I made more or less the same speech as you’ve made to me this evening. You know what he answered me? That ideals, until one knows exactly what one wants, are best forgotten and put aside...but, as soon as one has planted one’s foot on solid ground, then one should remember them, and
that
should become the ideal...the first thousand-lire note one earns—
that’s
the best ideal! Then, as he said to me, one’s ideal develops and becomes a film studio, a theater, films that have been made and that are going to be made—one’s everyday work, in fact. That’s what he said to me...and I did as he told me and everything turned out well. But you—you have the great advantage of knowing what your ideal is—to write plays. Well, you
will
write them!”

“I
will
write them?” I could not help asking, feeling doubtful but, at the same time, already somewhat comforted.

“Yes, you will write them,” Battista affirmed; “you will write them if you really want to, even if you
are
working for money, even if you
are
making scripts for Triumph Films. D’you want to know what the secret of success is, Molteni?”

“What is it?”

“Get into the queue, in life, just as you get into the queue at the booking-office, at the station. Our moment always comes, if we have patience and don’t change queues. Our moment always comes, and the booking-office clerk gives each person his ticket...each person according to his merits, of course...anyone who is going a long way, and is capable of doing so, may even be given a ticket for Australia. Others who are not going so far are given tickets for shorter journeys—for Capri, possibly!” He laughed, pleased with this ambiguous allusion to our journey, and then added: “I hope you yourself may receive a ticket for a very far-off destination...how about America?”

I looked at Battista, who was smiling at me in a fatherly manner, and then I looked at Emilia and saw that she too was smiling; it was a very faint smile, it is true, but no less sincere on that account—at least so it seemed to me. And I realized once again that Battista, that day, had somehow managed to change her aversion into a feeling that was almost one of liking for him. At this thought I was overwhelmed anew by the sadness that had assailed me when it seemed to me that I detected Signora Pasetti’s look in the eyes of Emilia. I said sadness, rather than jealousy: in reality I was extremely tired, owing both to the journey and to the various events of the day, and weariness was intermingled with all my feelings, even the most violent, deadening them and changing them into an impotent, despairing melancholy.

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.

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 hope. I asked, cautiously: “Why do you think so?”

“Because I know you.” She paused a moment and then sought to gloss over what she had said. “It’s always like that with film-scripts, anyhow...How many times have I known you declare that you wouldn’t do this or that job, and then you’ve done it! The difficulties in scripts always get smoothed out in the end.”

“That may be, but this time the difficulty is not in the script.”

“Where is it, then?”

“In myself.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Battista kissing you,” I should have liked to reply. But I restrained myself: our relationship had never been clarified right down to the bare truth, it had always been carried on by means of allusions. Before we reached the truth, there were so many other things that would have to be said. I bent forward slightly and declared with the greatest seriousness: “Emilia, you already know the reason; as I said at dinner, it’s because I’m tired of working for other people and want at last to work for myself.”

“And who’s preventing you?”

“You,” I said emphatically; then, seeing at once that she started to make a gesture of protest: “Not you directly...but your presence in my life...Our relations are unfortunately—what they are: don’t let’s speak of them...but all the same you are my wife, and I, as I’ve told you before, I take on these jobs mainly because of you. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t accept them. To put it briefly—you know it perfectly well and there’s no need for me to repeat it—we have a great many debts, we still have several installments to pay on the flat, even the car hasn’t yet been completely paid for...that’s why I do these film-scripts. Now, however, I want to make you a suggestion.”

“What?”

I imagined myself to be very calm, very lucid, very reasonable; and yet at the same time a faint feeling of uneasiness warned me that there was a certain falsity—a worse than falsity, an absurdity—in my calm, in my lucidity, in my reasonableness. After all, I had seen her in Battista’s arms: and that alone was what should have mattered. I went on, nevertheless: “The suggestion I want to make to you is as follows: that you yourself should decide whether I am to do this script or not. I promise you that if you tell me not to do it, I’ll go and tell Battista so, first thing tomorrow morning—and we’ll leave Capri by the first boat.”

She did not raise her head, but appeared to be meditating. “You’re very cunning,” she said at last.

“Why?”

“Because, if you regret it afterwards, you’ll always be able to say it was my fault!”

“I shan’t say anything of the kind...considering it’s I myself who am asking you to decide.”

She was now, obviously, reflecting upon the answer that she should give me. And I saw that her answer would provide an implicit corroboration of her feeling for me, whatever it might be. If she told me to do the script, it would mean that she now despised me to the point of considering that my work could continue, in spite of everything; if her answer, on the other hand, was in the negative, it would imply that she still retained some respect for me and did not want me to be dependent on her lover for my work. And so, after all, I came back again to the usual question: whether she despised me and why she despised me. At last she said: “These are things that one can’t allow other people to decide for one!”

“But I’m asking you to decide.”

“Then remember you insisted on my deciding,” she said all at once, with sudden solemnity.

“Yes, I shall remember.”

“Well, I think that, since you’ve taken on the job, you ought not to give it up. You yourself, in any case, have said that to me many times. Battista might be annoyed and never give you any more work. I think you should certainly do this job.”

I thought of that kiss, and said, in an almost hostile manner: “Very well then. But don’t tell me later on that you gave me this advice because you’d realized that, really and truly, I wanted to do the job...like that day when I had to sign the contract. Let it be quite clear that I
don’t
want to do it.”

“Ugh, you’ve exhausted me,” she said carelessly, getting up from the bed and going over to the wardrobe. “That’s my advice, anyhow...but of course you can do what you like...”

She had reassumed her tone of contempt, thus confirming my suppositions. And quite suddenly I experienced the same pain that I had felt that first time in Rome, when she had flung her aversion in my face. I could not help exclaiming: “Emilia, why all this?...Why are we so hostile to each other?”

She had opened the wardrobe and was looking at herself at the mirror on the door. She said, in an absent-minded way: “Well, well, it’s life, I suppose!”