Difficult Loves (17 page)

At that moment all of them felt a strange creature moving in among them, as if a dog were scooping among the blankets. One of the women screamed. The blankets were hurriedly pulled away so they could find out what it was. And in the middle of them they discovered Belmoretto, who was already

snoring, his shoes off, twisted up like a fetus. He was woken by thumps on the back. "Excuse me," he said. "I didn't want to disturb you."

But now they were all awake and cursing, except for the first man, who was dribbling.

"My bones are breaking, my back's freezing," they were saying. "We ought to bust up that light and cut the cord of that loud-speaker."

"I'll show you how to make up a mattress, if you like," said Belmoretto.

"Mattress!" repeated the others. "Mattress!"

But Belmoretto had already cleared a bit of blanket and begun to fold it up into pleats, in the way anyone who's been in prison knows. They told him to stop : there weren't enough blankets and someone would find himself without any at all. Then they discussed how one couldn't sleep without something under one's head and not all of them had anything, as the southerners' baskets weren't any use. So Belmoretto arranged a complete system, by which every man rested his head on the leg of a woman; this was very difficult to do because of the blankets, but finally they were all arranged and a lot of new combinations resulted. A little while later, however, everything was in confusion again, because they could not keep still; then Belmoretto managed to sell everyone a Nazionale cigarette and they all began to smoke and tell one another how many nights it was since they'd slept.

"Three weeks we've been traveling," said the Venetians.

"Three times we've tried to pass this - frontier and

they've turned us back. In France we'll get into the first bed we see and sleep for forty-eight hours on end."

"A bed," said Belmoretto. "With newly washed sheets and

a feather mattress to sink into. A warm narrow bed, to be alone in."

"What about us, then, who've always led this life?" said the black-market man. "When we get home we spend a night in bed and then off we go on the trains again."

"A warm bed with clean sheets," said Belmoretto. "Naked, I'd get in all naked."

"Six nights since we've taken our clothes off," said the old southerner. "Since we've changed underclothes. Six nights we've been sleeping like dogs."

"I'd creep into a house like a thief," said one of the Venetians. "But not to steal. Just to get into a bed and sleep till morning."

"Or to steal a bed and bring it here to sleep in," said the other.

Belmoretto had an idea. "Wait," he said, and off he went.

He wandered around under the arches outside till he met Mad Maria. If Mad Maria spent a night without finding a client she had to go without a meal next day, so she never gave up, even in the small hours, and went on marching up and down those pavements till dawn, with his thick red hair and her muscular calves. Belmoretto was a great friend of hers.

In the encampment at the station they were still talking about sleep and beds and the dogs' lives they led, and waiting for the darkness to clear in the windows. Ten minutes had gone by when Belmoretto came back, with a rolled-up mattress on his shoulders.

"Down you go," he said, rolling it out on the floor. "Half an hour's turn for fifty lire; you can sleep two at a time. Come on, now, what's twenty-five lire a head?"

He had rented a mattress from Mad Maria, who had two

on her bed, and was now subletting it by the half hour. Other sleepy travelers who were waiting to change trains came up, looking interested.

"Down you go," said Belmoretto. "I'll take care of waking you. We'll put a blanket on top of you and then no one'll see you and you can do what you like. Down you go, now."

One of the Venetians tried first, together with one of the girls from southern Italy. The older of the black-market women booked the second shift for herself and that poor sleeping man she was still propping up. Belmoretto had already pulled out a notebook and was jotting down the bookings, pleased as could be.

At dawn he'd take the mattress back to Mad Maria and they'd turn somersaults all over the bed till high noon. Then, at last, they'd fall asleep.

DESIRE IN NOVEMBER

The cold hit the city one morning in November, under a deceitful sun in a clear calm sky; it cut like blades down the long straight streets, chasing the cats from the gutters back into kitchens with fires still unlit. People who had got up late and had not opened their windows went out in light overcoats, saying once again, "Winter's late this year," then suddenly shivered as they breathed the icy air. But then they thought of the coal and wood supplies laid in during summer and congratulated themselves on their own foresight.

It was a bad day for the poor, though; now they had to face problems they had so far put aside: heating, clothes. The public gardens were full of lanky young men eying the scraggy plane trees and eluding the keepers as they fingered the saws under their patched coats. A cluster of people were reading a notice about the distribution of winter vests and pants by a charitable organization.

In one of the parishes the poor were told to collect these garments from a local priest, Don Grillo. Don Grillo lived in an old house with dark narrow stairs, onto which the door of

his flat opened directly, with only a slip of landing. On these stairs the poor lined up on distribution days, to knock one by one on the closed door, hand their certificates and coupons to an aged and lacrimose housekeeper, and then wait on the stairs again for her to return with the meager bundle. There was a glimpse of a room inside, full of worm-eaten old furniture and a table covered with bundles, at which sat Don Grillo, looking enormous and shouting in his deep resounding voice as he jotted everything down in registers.

Sometimes the line wound down past the corners of the stairs: widows in reduced circumstances who seldom left their attics, beggars with hacking coughs, dusty countrymen stamping about in hobnailed boots, disheveled youths—emigrants from somewhere or other—who wore sandals in winter and raincoats in summer. Sometimes this slow and squalid stream spread right on down past the mezzanine floor and the glass doors of Fabrizia's, the furriers. And the elegant women going to Fabrizia's to have their mink or astrakhan altered had to hug the banisters to avoid brushing against the ragged crew.

On the day that flannel vests and pants were being distributed at Don Grillo's, the line was joined by a porter, a strong old man who had a white beard streaked with blond. He was wearing a military overcoat and nothing underneath at all. Buttoned and muffled up though he was, his shins were bare and ended in a pair of boots without any socks. People would look down and stand open-mouthed; he would laugh back. Under the fringe of white hair falling over his forehead he had two big, merry blue eyes, and a broad, vinous, happy face.

His name was Barbagallo and his clothes had been stolen from the riverbank that summer while he was carrying loads of gravel. Till then he had got along with a few rags and a

visit every now and then to prison or workhouse; but after a while he was let out of prison and escaped from the workhouse, to wander around the city and the villages nearby, loitering or doing an odd job as a porter by the hour here and there. Having no clothes was a good excuse for him to beg or to get put back in prison when he had nowhere better to go. The cold that morning had made him decide to lay hands on a suit, so he was going around naked except for that overcoat, terrifying the girls and being stopped by the police at every intersection as he was shuttled from one charity organization to another.

Once he joined the line, no one spoke of anything else; meanwhile, he was elbowing and pushing his way up the stairs, trying out every trick to get ahead.

"Yes, yes, I'm naked! D'you see? Not just my legs! Would you like me to unbutton my coat? Hey, either you let me pass or I
will
unbutton it! Am I cold? Never been better! Like to feel, madam, how warm I am? He's only handing out pants, the priest? What use are they to me? I'll take 'em, and then I'll go and sell 'em!"

Finally he sat down in the line, on a step that was actually the landing in front of Fabrizia's. Ladies were coming and going, showing off their furs for the first time. "Oh," they cried, when they saw the bare legs of the old man sitting down outside.

"Now, don't call the police, signora, they've already stopped me and sent me here to get myself some clothes. And anyway, I'm not showing anything, so don't make such a fuss."

The ladies passed hurriedly by, and Barbagallo felt himself brushed by the soft folds smelling of camphor and lily of the

valley. "A fine fur, signora, unquestionably; it must be nice and warm under that!"

As each woman passed, he stretched out his hand and stroked her fur. "Help," they screamed. Then he rubbed his cheek against the furs like a cat.

There was a confabulation inside Fabrizia's; no one dared come out any more. "Should we call the police?" they asked one another. "But they've sent him here to get clothes!" Every now and then they opened the door a crack. "Is he still there?" Once he stuck his bearded head in through the door, without getting up. "Oooh!" They nearly fainted.

Eventually Barbagallo made up his mind to go and parley with them. He got up and rang Fabrizia's bell. Two employees opened the door, one a pale woman who was all knees, the other a girl with black braids. "Call the ladies!" "Go away," said the pale woman. But Barbagallo did not let her shut the door. "Go and call 'em," he said to the other girl. She turned and went away. "Good girl," said Barbagallo. The owner of the shop appeared with her clients. "How much will you give me not to unbutton my coat?" said Barbagallo. "What?" "Come on, now, no nonsense!" And he began to unbutton himself from the neck with one hand, while holding the other out. The ladies hurriedly searched about in their bags for change to give him. One, a matron heavily loaded with jewels, did not seem to be able to find any change and was watching him with her big painted eyes. Barbagallo stopped unbuttoning. "Well, then; how much will you give me if I
do
unbutton?" "Ha ha ha!" exploded the salesgirl with the braids. "Linda!" shouted her mistress. Barbagallo pocketed the money and went out. "So long, Linda," he said.

In the line the rumor was going around that there weren't enough clothes for everyone.

"Me first, because I'm naked!" exclaimed Barbagallo and succeeded in getting to the head.

The housekeeper at the door clasped her hands together on seeing him. "With nothing underneath! What's to be done? Wait, no, don't come in!"

"Let me pass, old girl, or I'll tempt you to sin. Where is His Reverence?"

And he went into the priest's room, among the Sacred Hearts bleeding away in their baroque frames, the towering cupboards and the crucifixes splayed all over the walls like black birds. Don Grillo rose from his desk and burst into a loud laugh :

"Ho ho ho! And who got you up like that? Ho ho ho!"

"Tell me, Father, today is the day for flannel underclothes, but I'm here for trousers. Do you have any?"

The priest had flung himself back in his high-backed armchair and was laughing and laughing, his double chin and stomach in the air. "No, no, ho ho ho, no, I don't have any. ...

"I'm not asking for a pair of yours, you know. ... Well, in that case I'll have to stay here, till you telephone the bishop and have a pair sent over for me."

"That's it, that's it, my son, go to the archbishop's, go to the palace, ho ho ho, I'll give you a note. ..."

"A note. And what about the flannel underclothes?"

The priest began turning over sets of vests and long pants but could not find a size large enough for Barbagallo. When they had found the biggest pair there was, Barbagallo said,

"Now I'll put them on." The housekeeper was just in time to escape onto the landing before he took off his overcoat.

When he was naked, Barbagallo did a few exercises to warm himself up, then began to put on the underclothes. Don Grillo could not stop laughing at seeing that Garibaldi-like figure, squeezed from neck to wrists and down to the ankles into very tight vest and pants, with boots below.

"Oooh!" cried Barbagallo, and sprang back as if he had had a shock.

"What's the matter, what's the matter, my son?"

"It tickles, it tickles me everywhere. ... What's this vest you've given me, Father? I'm prickling all over!"

"Go on with you, it's new, you know, it's new; you'll soon get used to it."

"Oh, my skin's so delicate since I've got used to being naked. ... Oooh, how it pricks me!" And he twisted himself around to scratch his back.

"Come on, all you have to do is wash it once and it'll become as soft as silk. ... Now, go to the address I've given you and they'll see about getting you a suit. Off with you. ..." And he pushed Barbagallo toward the door, making him put on his overcoat again.

Barbagallo made no further resistance; he was a defeated man. They shut the door behind him. He started downstairs, doubled up, complaining and scratching himself, and all those still waiting in the line asked him, "What've they done to you? Did they hit you? What a scandal! A priest, hitting a poor old man! What lovely pants, though." And they looked at his shins encased in white flannel.

Barbagallo seemed to have aged about ten years; his blue eyes were swollen with tears. On his way downstairs, he passed by the door of the furriers. Suddenly he turned around, stopped his complaining, and knocked.

The salesgirl with the braids peeped out from the door. "But ..." she said. "Look," said Barbagallo with a smile on his still-tearful face, and pointed to the white pants at his ankles. And the girl exclaimed, "Oh ..."

He was inside now. "Call your mistress, go on!" The girl went out. Barbagallo leapt into a side room and locked himself in. Signora Fabrizia came, did not see him, and went back, shaking her head. "Why they don't keep madmen shut up, I don't know. ..."

As soon as the key had turned in the lock, Barbagallo tore off his overcoat, the vest, the boots, and the pants, and breathed freely, naked at last. Seeing himself reflected in a large mirror, he flexed his muscles and did some exercises. There was no heating and it was bitterly cold, but he felt very happy. Then he began to look around.