The Skin (26 page)

Like all the Red Cross nurses and Waacs attached to the American Army, who were arriving by air each day from the United States in the hope of triumphantly entering Rome or Paris in all their sartorial splendour and of making a not unfavourable impression on their European rivals, Mrs. Flat had included in her baggage an evening gown, the latest creation—"Summer, 1943"—of some famous New York dressmaker. She sat stiff and erect, her elbows close to her sides, her hands resting lightly on the edge of the table, in the favourite attitude of the Madonnas and Queens portrayed by Italian painters of the Quattocento. Her face was lustrous and smooth; it was like old porcelain, here and there cracked with age. She was no longer a young woman, but she was not more than fifty; and as happens to many American women when they grow older, the pink bloom on her cheeks, far from being faded or dulled, had grown brighter and, as it were, purer and more innocent. As a result she resembled not so much a mature woman with a youthful appearance as a young girl made to look old by the magic power of cosmetics and the art of skilful wig-makers—a girl disguised as an old woman. Her face contained one absolutely natural feature, in which Youth and Age contended as in a ballad of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and that was the eyes. These were of a beautiful sea-green colour, and as their expression changed one was reminded of the undulations of green sea-weed as it comes to the surface of the waves.

Her generous
décolletage
afforded a glimpse of a round, very white shoulder. White, too, were her arms, which were bare to the elbows and above. She had a long, sinuous neck, the swan-like neck which to Sandro Botticelli signified the acme of feminine beauty. I looked at Mrs. Flat, and it gave me pleasure to look at her, perhaps because of her weary and at the same time childlike expression, or because of the pride and disdain that were reflected in her eyes, in her small, thin-lipped mouth, and in her slightly frowning brow.

The hall in which Mrs. Flat was sitting formed part of an ancient and noble Neapolitan palace. It was a solemn, ornate structure, belonging to one of the most illustrious noble families in Naples and in Europe; for the Dukes of Toledo do not yield pride of place to the Colonna, nor to the Orsini, nor to the Polignacs, nor to the Westminsters. Only on certain occasions are they eclipsed by the Dukes of Alba. Seated at that richly laden board, amid the splendour of the Murano mirrors and the Capodimonte porcelain, under a ceiling painted by Luca Giordano, between walls hung with the loveliest and most priceless Arabo-Norman tapestries from Sicily, Mrs. Flat was deliriously out of place. She realized to perfection the fanciful concept of an American woman of the Quattrocento, who had been brought up in Florence at the Court of Lorenzo the Magnificent, or in Ferrara at the Court of the Estensi, or in Urbino at the Court of the Della Rovere, and whose
livre de chevet
was not the
Blue Book
but the
Courtier
of Messrs. Baldassar Castiglione.

For some reason—it may have been her purple gown or its yellow trimmings (purple and yellow are the dominant colours in the chromatic scheme of the Renaissance), or her high, narrow forehead, or the dazzling pink and white of her complexion—everything, even her lacquered nails, her hair-style and the gold clips at her bosom, combined to make of her an American contemporary of the women of Bronzino, Ghirlandaio and Botticelli. Even the grace which in the exquisite and mysterious women portrayed by those famous painters appears to have in it a deeply-ingrained streak of cruelty assumed in Mrs. Flat a fresh and innocent character, so that she seemed a monster of purity and virginity. And she would undoubtedly have appeared to belong to an earlier age even than the Venuses and nymphs of Botticelli except that something in her face, in the brilliance of her skin, which resembled a porcelain mask, and in her round, green eyes, wide and unwavering, recalled those coloured portraits, advertising some "Institut de Beaute" or somebody's preserves, which are a feature of
Vogue
and
Harper's Bazaar;
or rather, I would say—lest I wound Mrs. Flat's
amour propre
too deeply—a modern copy of an old picture, with its excessively shiny and new appearance, due to the varnish. She was, I venture to say, an "original," but spurious. If I were not afraid of displeasing Mrs. Flat I would add that she conformed to the Renaissance style— wherein the corrupting influence of the baroque was already evident —of the famous "white hall" of the palace of the Dukes of Toledo in which we were that evening enjoying the hospitality of General Cork. She was rather like Tushkevich, that character in Tolstoy's
Anna Karenina
who conformed to the Louis XV style of the Princess Betsy Tverskaya's drawing-room.

But what betrayed the presence beneath Mrs. Flat's Renaissance facade of a modern woman, in tune with the times—a typical American woman—was her voice, her gestures, and the pride that was reflected in her every word, in her eyes and in her smile. Her voice was thin and incisive, her gestures were at once imperious and sophisticated. She had an intolerant pride, a pride quickened by that distinctive Park Avenue brand of snobbery which holds that the only beings worthy of respect are Princes and Princesses, Dukes and Duchesses—in a word the "nobility"—and a false rather than a genuine "nobility" at that. Mrs. Flat was there at our table, seated beside General Cork. Yet how remote she was from us! In spirit she was floating through the sublime realms in which the Princesses, Duchesses and Marchionesses of old Europe scintillate like golden stars. She sat erect, her head slightly tilted back, her eyes fixed on an invisible cloud, drifting across an invisible blue sky. And as I followed the direction of Mrs. Flat's gaze I suddenly became aware that her eyes were riveted on a canvas that hung from the wall opposite her. It was a portrait of the young Princess of Teano, maternal grandmother of the Duke of Toledo, who in 1860 or thereabouts had illumined with her grace and beauty the last sad days of the Court of the Bourbons in Naples. And I could not suppress a smile when I observed that the Princess of Teano was also sitting erect, her head slightly tilted back and her eyes turned heavenwards, in an attitude identical with Mrs. Flat's.

General Cork caught me smiling; he followed the direction of my gaze and smiled in his turn.

"Our friend Malaparte," said General Cork, "knows all the Princesses in Europe."

"Really?" exclaimed Mrs. Flat, flushing with pleasure and slowly lowering her eyes until they rested upon me; and as her lips parted in a smile of admiration I saw the flashing of her teeth, the white splendour of those marvellous American teeth which are impervious to the years and which actually seem real, they are so white, so even and so perfect. That smile dazzled me; it made me lower my eyelids and shudder with fear. It was accompanied by that terrible flashing of teeth which in America is the first happy augury of old age, the last glittering gesture of farewell which every American makes to the world of the living as he descends smiling into the grave.

"Not all of them, for heaven's sake!" I replied, opening my eyes.

"Do you know Princess Esposito?" said Mrs. Flat. "She is the first lady of Rome—a real Princess."

"Princess Esposito?" I replied. "There is no Princess with such a name."

"Are you suggesting that Princess Carmela Esposito doesn't exist?" said Mrs. Flat, knitting her brows and eyeing me with cold contempt. "She is a dear friend of mine. A few months before the war she was my guest at Boston, together with her husband, Prince Gennaro Esposito. She is a cousin of your King, and, of course, she owns a magnificent palace in Rome, right next to the Palazzo Reale. I can hardly wait for Rome to be liberated so that I can hurry to bring her the greetings of the women of America."

"I'm sorry, but no Princess Esposito exists or can exist," I replied. "Esposito is the name given by the Istituto degli Innocehti to foundlings—to the children of unknown parents."

"I hope you aren't trying to make me believe," said Mrs. Flat, "that all the Princesses in Europe know their parents."

"I don't claim that," I replied. "I meant that, in Europe, when Princesses are real Princesses their origin is known."

"In the States," said Mrs. Flat, "we never ask anyone about their origin—not even a Princess. America is a democratic country."

"Esposito," I said, "is a very democratic name. In the alleys of Naples everyone is called Esposito."

"I don't care if everyone in Naples is called Esposito," said Mrs. Flat. "What I do know is that my friend Princess Carmela Esposito is a real Princess. It's very strange that you shouldn't know her. She is a cousin of your King, and that's enough for me. In Washington, at the State Department, they told me that she behaved very well during the war. It was she who persuaded your King to arrest Mussolini. She is a real heroine."

"If she behaved well during the war," said Colonel Eliot, "it means she isn't a real Princess."

"She is a Princess," said Mrs. Flat, "a real Princess."

"In this war," I said, "all the women of Europe, whether Princesses or porteresses, have behaved very well."

"That's true," said General Cork.

"The women who have had dealings with the Germans," said Colonel Brand, "are relatively few."

"That means they have behaved much better than the men," said Mrs. Flat.

"They have behaved as well as the men," I said, "although in a different way."

"The women of Europe," said Mrs. Flat in an ironical tone, "have also behaved very well in the matter of their relations with the American soldiers—much better than the men. Isn't that true, General?"

"Yes ... no ... I mean . . ." answered General Cork, blushing.

"There is no difference," I said, "between a woman who prostitutes herself to a German and a woman who prostitutes herself to an American."

"What?" exclaimed Mrs. Flat in a hoarse voice.

"From the moral point of view," I said, "there is no difference."

"There is a very important difference," said Mrs. Flat, while all were silent, their faces red. "The Germans are barbarians, and the American soldiers are fine boys."

"Yes," said General Cork, "they are fine boys."

"Oh, sure!" exclaimed Colonel Eliot.

"If you had lost the war," I said, "not a woman in Europe would deem you worthy of a smile. Women prefer the victors to the vanquished."

"You are immoral," said Mrs. Flat in an icy voice.

"Our women," I said, "don't prostitute themselves to you because you are handsome and because you are fine boys, but because you have won the war."

"Do you think that, General?" asked Mrs. Flat, turning abruptly to General Cork.

"I think ... yes ... no ... I think . . ." replied General Cork, blinking his eyes.

"You are a happy people," I said. "There are certain things that you can't understand."

"We Americans," said Jack, looking at me with eyes that were full of sympathy, "are not happy: we are lucky."

"I wish everyone in Europe," said Mrs. Flat slowly, "were as lucky as we are. Why don't you try to be lucky too?"

"It's enough for us to be happy," I replied.
"For we are happy.'"

"Happy?" exclaimed Mrs. Flat, looking at me with stupefaction in her eyes. "How can you be happy when your children are dying of hunger and your women are not ashamed to prostitute themselves for a packet of cigarettes? You aren't happy—you're immoral."

"With a packet of cigarettes," I said in a low voice, "one can buy six pounds of bread."

Mrs. Flat blushed, and the sight of her blushing gave me pleasure.

"Our women are all worthy of respect," I said, "even those who sell themselves for a packet of cigarettes. All the honest women in the world, even the honest women of America, ought to learn from the poor women of Europe how one may prostitute oneself with dignity to satisfy one's hunger. Do you know what hunger is, Mrs. Flat?"

"No, thank God. And you?" said Mrs. Flat. I noticed that her hands were trembling.

"I have a deep respect for all who prostitute themselves because of hunger," I replied. "If I were hungry, and I could not satisfy my hunger in any other way, I would not hesitate for a moment to sell my hunger for a piece of bread or a packet of cigarettes."

"Hunger, hunger—always the same excuse," said Mrs. Flat.

"When you go back to America," I said, "you will at least have learned this horrible and marvellous truth—that in Europe hunger can be bought like any other commodity."

"What do you mean when you talk of 'buying hunger'?" asked General Cork.

"I mean 'buying hunger'," I replied. "American soldiers think they are buying a woman, and they are buying her hunger. They think they are buying love and they are buying a slice of hunger. If I were an American soldier I should buy a slice of hunger and take it to America, so that I could make a present of it to my wife and show her what can be bought in Europe with a packet of cigarettes. A slice of hunger makes a splendid present."

"The unfortunates who sell themselves for a packet of cigarettes," said Mrs. Flat, "don't look as if they were starving. They have the appearance of being in excellent condition."

"They do Swedish drill with pumice-stone," I said.

"What?" exclaimed Mrs. Flat, opening her eyes wide.

"When I was deported to the island of Lipari," I said, "the French and English newspapers announced that I was very ill and accused Mussolini of brutality towards political prisoners. As a matter of fact I
was
very ill, and it was feared that I had tuberculosis. Mussolini ordered the Lipari police to have me photographed in an athletic pose and to send the photographs to the Ministry of the Interior in Rome, where it would be published in the newspapers as proof that I was enjoying good health. So one morning a police officer visited me, accompanied by a photographer, and ordered me to assume an an athletic pose.

" 'I don't go in for athletics on Lipari,' I replied.

" 'Not even a little Swedish drill?' said the police officer.

" 'Yes,' I replied, 'I do a little Swedish drill with pumice-stone.'

" 'All right,' said the police officer, 'I'll photograph you while you do some drill with pumice-stone.' And he added, as though trying to give me a piece of advice in the interests of my health: 'It isn't very strenuous. You ought to exercise with something heavier to develop your chest-muscles. You need to do it.'