Contempt (23 page)

She said nothing; all she did was to turn a little farther around so as to see me better, at the same time adjusting her dark glasses on her nose with a gesture of indifferent curiosity. I went on: “Do you mind my staying here, or would you rather I went away?”

I saw her considering me; then, with a calm movement, she stretched herself out in the sun again, saying: “Stay if you like, as far as I’m concerned...As long as you don’t take the sun off me!”

So she really did consider me to be non-existent—nothing but an opaque body that might put itself between the sun and her own, naked body, which, according to my desire, ought on the other hand to have felt itself in relationship with mine and have revealed this relationship in some way, whether by a show of modesty or of alarm. Her indifference disconcerted me in a most painful way; I felt my mouth grow suddenly dry, as though with fear; and I was aware that my face was assuming, against my will, an expression of uneasiness, of bewilderment, of false, distressing assurance. “It’s very pleasant here,” I said, “I shall take a sunbath too...” And, in order to put a good face on it, I sat down at a little distance from her, leaning my back against one of the great lumps of rock.

There followed a very long silence. Endless waves of golden light, gently burning and dazzling, enveloped me, and I could not help half-closing my eyes, with a deep sense of well-being and peace. But I could not pretend to myself that I was there simply for the sun; I felt I could never enjoy it fully unless Emilia loved me. Almost as if I were thinking aloud, I said: “This place seems purposely made for people who love each other.”

“Yes, doesn’t it!” she echoed, without stirring, from under the straw hat which hid her face.

“Not for us, who no longer love each other!”

This time she said nothing. And I remained with my eyes fixed upon her, feeling, at the sight of her, a return of all the desire that had troubled me shortly before, when I had emerged from between the rocks and seen her for the first time.

Intense feelings have in them the virtue of making us pass from feeling to action in a wholly spontaneous fashion, without the concurrence of the will, almost unconsciously. Without my knowing how it had happened, I found myself no longer sitting apart by myself, with my back against a rock, but kneeling beside Emilia, bending over her with my face held close to hers, while she lay motionless and asleep. I don’t know how, but I had already removed the hat that hid her face, and, as I prepared to kiss her, I was looking at her mouth as one sometimes looks at a fruit before putting one’s teeth into it. It was a large, very full mouth, and the redness of the lipstick upon it looked parched and cracked as though it had been dried up, not by the sun, but by some interior heat. I said to myself that that mouth had not kissed me for a very long time, and that the savor of the kiss, if it were returned by her as she lay thus between waking and sleeping, would be as intoxicating as that of some old, potent liquor. I think I must have gazed at her mouth for at least a minute; then, gradually, I lowered my lips to hers. But I did not immediately kiss her: I paused for a moment with my lips very close to hers. I felt the light, quiet breath that came from her nostrils; and also, it seemed to me, the warmth of her burning lips. I knew that behind those lips, inside her mouth—like frozen snow preserved in a fold of sun-scorched earth—lay the coolness of her saliva, as surprising, as refreshing as such snow would be. While I was relishing this foretaste, my lips came truly into contact with Emilia’s. The touch did not appear to awaken her, nor to surprise her. I pressed my lips against hers, first softly, then more and more strongly; then, seeing that she remained perfectly still, I ventured upon a profounder kiss. This time I felt her mouth slowly opening, as I had hoped—like a shellfish whose valves open at the pulsating movement of some living creature wet with cool sea-water. Slowly, slowly it opened, the lips drawing back over the gums; and at the same time I felt an arm encircling my neck...

With a violent jolt, I started and awoke from what must evidently have been a kind of trance induced by the silence and the heat of the sun. In front of me, Emilia was lying on the beach as before; and her face was still hidden by the straw hat. I realized that I had dreamed the kiss, or rather, had actually experienced it in that state of delirious hankering which constantly replaces dreary reality with some more attractive illusion. I had kissed her and she had returned my kiss; but the one who had kissed and the one who had returned the kiss were merely a couple of phantoms evoked by desire and entirely dissociated from our two persons as we lay motionless and apart. I looked at Emilia and wondered suddenly: “Suppose I now tried really to kiss her?” And I answered myself: “No, you won’t try...you’re paralyzed by timidity and by the consciousness of her contempt for you.” All at once I said, in a loud voice: “Emilia!”

“What is it?”

“I fell asleep and dreamed I was kissing you.”

She said nothing. Frightened by her silence, I was anxious to change the subject, so I went on, at random: “Where’s Battista?”

She answered in a quiet voice, from underneath the hat: “I don’t know where he is...By the way, he won’t be at lunch with us today...he’s lunching with Rheingold at the beach.”

Before I knew what I was saying, I blurted out: “Emilia, I saw you yesterday evening, when Battista kissed you in the living-room!”

“I knew you’d seen me. I saw you too.” Her voice was quite normal, though slightly muffled by the brim of the hat.

I was disconcerted by the manner in which she received my disclosure; and also, to some extent, by the way in which I myself had made it. The truth of the matter, I thought, was that the stupefying sunshine and the silence of the sea reduced and neutralized our quarrel in a general feeling of vanity and indifference. However, with a great effort, I went on: “Emilia, you and I must have a talk.”

“Not now...I want to lie in the sun and be quiet.”

“This afternoon, then.”

“All right, this afternoon.”

I rose to my feet and, without looking back, walked off towards the path that led to the villa.

AT LUNCH WE scarcely spoke. Silence seemed to penetrate inside the villa together with the strong light of noon; the sky and sea that filled the big windows dazzled us and gave us a feeling of remoteness, as though all this blueness were a substantial thing, like a depth of water, and we two were sitting at the bottom of the sea, separated by luminous, fluctuating liquid and unable to speak. Moreover I made it a point of duty not to embark upon the explanation with Emilia until the afternoon, as I myself had proposed. It might be imagined that two people who find themselves sitting face to face with an important argument hanging between them do not think of anything else. But this was certainly not the case with us: I was not thinking at all of Battista’s kiss or of our relationship; and I was sure that Emilia was not thinking of them either. There was a sort of continuation of the suspense, of the torpor, of the indifference that had prompted me on the beach that morning to put off all explanations till later.

After lunch, Emilia rose and said she was going to rest, and went out. Left alone, I sat still for a while, looking through the windows at the clear, luminous line of the horizon, where the harder blue of the sea joined the deep blue of the sky. A ship, small and black, was advancing along this line, like a fly on a taut thread, and I followed it with my eyes, thinking, for some reason, of all the things that were going on at that moment on board that ship—sailors polishing brasses or washing the decks; the cook washing dishes in his galley; the officers still, perhaps, sitting at table; and, down in the engine-room, half-naked stokers shoveling coal into the furnaces. It was a small ship, and to me, as I looked at it, it was nothing but a black speck; but from close by it was a large object filled with human beings and human destinies. And, conversely, I thought of the people over there looking from their ship at the coast of Capri; their eyes would perhaps be brought to an unwilling halt by an isolated white spot on the coast, and they would not even suspect that that white spot was the villa and that I was inside it and with me was Emilia and we two did not love each other and Emilia despised me and I did not know how to regain her esteem and her love...

I became conscious that I was dozing off, and, with an abrupt burst of energy, decided to put into effect the first part of my plan: to go and inform Rheingold that I had “thought it over” and that, as a result, I would not be collaborating in the script of the film. This decision had the effect upon me of a bucketful of fresh water. Wide awake now, I jumped to my feet and went out of the house.

Half an hour later, having walked rapidly along the path that ran round the island, I entered the hall of the hotel. I sent in my name and went and sat down in an armchair. I felt that my mind was exceedingly lucid, even though with a feverish and somewhat agitated lucidity. But, judging from my growing sense of relief—my joy, almost—at the thought of what I was about to do, I knew that I had at last set out upon the right road. After a few minutes Rheingold entered the hall and came over to me with a clouded, surprised expression in which wonder at my having called at that hour appeared to be mingled with the suspicion that he was about to hear some unpleasant news. For politeness’ sake, I asked him: “Perhaps you were asleep, Rheingold?...and I’ve woken you up?”

“No, no,” he assured me, “I wasn’t asleep, I never sleep in the afternoon...But come this way, Molteni, let’s go into the bar.”

I followed him into the bar, which at that hour was deserted. Rheingold, as though anxious to delay the discussion he anticipated, asked me if I would like something to drink—coffee, a liqueur. He made this suggestion with an air of gloom and reserve, like a miser who is forced to provide expensive hospitality against his will. But I knew that the reason was quite a different one: he would have preferred me not to come at all. Anyhow, I refused; and, after a few polite remarks, I embarked without more ado on the main subject. “You may perhaps be surprised,” I said, “that I’ve come back so soon. I had a whole day to consider it. But there seemed no point in waiting till tomorrow. I’ve thought about it long enough, and I came to tell you the result of my reflections.”

“And what is that result?”

“That I cannot collaborate in this film-script...in fact, that I am throwing up the job.”

Rheingold did not receive this declaration with any surprise: he was evidently expecting it. But he appeared to be thrown into a kind of agitation. He said at once, in a changed voice: “Molteni, you and I must speak plainly.”

“It seems to me I have already spoken extremely plainly: I am not going to do the script of the
Odyssey
.”

“And why? Please tell me.”

“Because I do not agree with your interpretation of the subject.”

“In that case,” he retorted, quickly and unexpectedly, “you agree with Battista!”

I do not know why I, in my turn, was irritated by this unforeseen accusation. It had not occurred to me that not to be in agreement with Rheingold meant to be in agreement with Battista! I said angrily: “What’s Battista got to do with it? I don’t agree with Battista either. But I tell you frankly, Rheingold, if I had to choose between the two, I should prefer Battista every time. I’m sorry, Rheingold: as far as I’m concerned, either one does the
Odyssey
of Homer or else one doesn’t do it at all.”

“A masquerade in technicolor with naked women, King Kong, stomach dances, brassières, cardboard monsters, model sets!”

“I didn’t say that: I said the
Odyssey
of Homer!”

“But the
Odyssey
of Homer is
mine
,” he said with profound conviction, bending forwards, “it’s
mine
, Molteni!”

For some unexplained reason I was conscious, all at once, of a desire to offend Rheingold: his false, ceremonious smile, his real, dictatorial hardness, his psychoanalytical obtuseness, all became at the moment intolerable to me. I said furiously: “No, Homer’s
Odyssey
is not yours, Rheingold. And I’ll say more, since you force me to it: I find Homer’s
Odyssey
altogether enchanting and yours altogether repulsive!”

“Molteni!” This time Rheingold appeared really indignant.

“Yes, to me it’s repulsive,” I went on, becoming heated now, “this desire of yours to reduce, to debase the Homeric hero just because we’re incapable of making him as Homer created him, this operation of systematic degradation is repulsive to me, and I’m not going to take part in it at any price.”

“Molteni...one moment, Molteni!”

“Have you read James Joyce’s
Ulysses
?” I interrupted him angrily; “do you know who Joyce is?”

“I’ve read everything that concerns the
Odyssey
,” replied Rheingold in a deeply offended tone, “but you—”

“Well,” I continued passionately, “Joyce also interpreted the
Odyssey
in the modern manner...and he went much farther than you do, my dear Rheingold, in the job of modernization—that is, of debasement, of degradation, of profanation. He made Ulysses a cuckold, an onanist, an idler, a capricious, incompetent creature...and Penelope a retired whore. Aeolus became a newspaper editor, the descent into the infernal regions the funeral of a boon-companion, Circe a visit to a brothel, and the return to Ithaca the return home at dead of night through the streets of Dublin, with a stop or two on the way to piss in a dark corner. But at least Joyce had the discernment not to bring in the Mediterranean, the sea, the sun, the sky, the unexplored lands of antiquity. He placed the whole story in the muddy streets of a northern city, in taverns and brothels, in bedrooms and lavatories. No sunshine, no sea, no sky... everything modern, in other words debased, degraded, reduced to our own miserable stature. But you—you lack Joyce’s discretion...and therefore I, I repeat, between you and Battista, I prefer Battista, in spite of all his papier mâché. Yes, I prefer Battista. You wanted to know why I don’t wish to do this script...now you do know!”