world in four years of matrimony. With his usual embarrassing cheerfulness, Pasetti now said: “Today we have a drink. I’m going to make a cocktail.”
“Not for me, Gino,” Signora Pasetti warned him; “you know I don’t drink.”
“ We’ll drink, then.”
I sat down in an armchair of sand-papered wood with a flowered cover, in front of a red-brick chimney-place; and Signora Pasetti sat down on the other side of the fireplace, on another identical chair. The sitting-room, I noticed, when I looked round, was an accurate copy of its master: furnished with a “suite” in sham rustic style, it was bright and clean and orderly but at the same time rather bleak—like the house of a meticulous accountant or bank clerk. I had nothing to do but look, for Signora Pasetti did not appear to feel any need to speak to me. She sat opposite me with eyes lowered, her hands in her lap, quite motionless. Meanwhile Pasetti went over to the other end of the room, to an extremely ugly composite piece of furniture, a radio containing a bar; then he stooped down twice, on his thin legs, and, with precise, angular movements, took out two bottles, one of vermouth and one of gin, three glasses and a shaker. He placed them all on a tray and carried the tray over to a small table in front of the fireplace. I noticed that the bottles were both of them sealed and intact: it did not look as if Pasetti often allowed himself the drink he was now about to prepare for us. The shaker, too, was bright and shining and appeared quite new. He announced that he was going to fetch some ice and went out.
We sat a long time in silence, and then, in order to say something, I said: “We’ve finished the script, at last!”
Without raising her eyes, Signora Pasetti replied: “Yes, so Gino said.”
“I’m sure it will make a fine film.”
“I’m sure it will too; otherwise Gino would not have agreed to do it.”
“Do you know the story?”
“Yes, Gino told it me.”
“Do you like it?”
“Gino likes it, so I like it too.”
“Do you always agree, you two?”
“Gino and I? Yes, always.”
“Which of the two of you is in command?”
“Gino, of course.”
I noticed that she had contrived to repeat the name of Gino each time she had opened her mouth. I had spoken lightly and almost jokingly; she had answered me all the time with the utmost seriousness. Then Pasetti came in again with the ice-pail and called out to me: “Your wife’s on the telephone, Riccardo.”
For some unaccountable reason I felt my heart sink, with a sudden return of my usual unhappiness. Mechanically I rose and started towards the door. Pasetti added: “The telephone’s in the kitchen—but if you like you can answer it here...I’ve switched it through.”
The telephone was, in fact, on a cabinet beside the fireplace. I took off the receiver and heard Emilia’s voice say to me: “I’m sorry, but today you’ll have to go out to lunch somewhere...I’m going to my mother’s.”
“But why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I didn’t want to disturb you at your work.”
“All right,” I said, “I’ll go and eat at a restaurant.”
“We’ll meet later; good-bye.”
She rang off and I turned towards Pasetti. “Riccardo,” he asked at once, “are you not lunching at home?”
“No, I’m going to a restaurant.”
“Well, stay and have lunch with us...pot-luck, of course... but we’d be very pleased.”
An inexplicable feeling of despondency had come over me at the thought of having lunch alone at a restaurant, probably because I had been looking forward with pleasure to announcing to Emilia that the script was finished. Perhaps I should not have done this after all, knowing, as I have said, that she was no longer interested in what I did; but at first I had yielded to the old habit of our past relationship. Pasetti’s invitation gave me pleasure; and I accepted it with almost excessive gratitude. He, in the meantime, had uncorked the two
“Not for me, Gino,” Signora Pasetti warned him; “you know I don’t drink.”
“ We’ll drink, then.”
I sat down in an armchair of sand-papered wood with a flowered cover, in front of a red-brick chimney-place; and Signora Pasetti sat down on the other side of the fireplace, on another identical chair. The sitting-room, I noticed, when I looked round, was an accurate copy of its master: furnished with a “suite” in sham rustic style, it was bright and clean and orderly but at the same time rather bleak—like the house of a meticulous accountant or bank clerk. I had nothing to do but look, for Signora Pasetti did not appear to feel any need to speak to me. She sat opposite me with eyes lowered, her hands in her lap, quite motionless. Meanwhile Pasetti went over to the other end of the room, to an extremely ugly composite piece of furniture, a radio containing a bar; then he stooped down twice, on his thin legs, and, with precise, angular movements, took out two bottles, one of vermouth and one of gin, three glasses and a shaker. He placed them all on a tray and carried the tray over to a small table in front of the fireplace. I noticed that the bottles were both of them sealed and intact: it did not look as if Pasetti often allowed himself the drink he was now about to prepare for us. The shaker, too, was bright and shining and appeared quite new. He announced that he was going to fetch some ice and went out.
We sat a long time in silence, and then, in order to say something, I said: “We’ve finished the script, at last!”
Without raising her eyes, Signora Pasetti replied: “Yes, so Gino said.”
“I’m sure it will make a fine film.”
“I’m sure it will too; otherwise Gino would not have agreed to do it.”
“Do you know the story?”
“Yes, Gino told it me.”
“Do you like it?”
“Gino likes it, so I like it too.”
“Do you always agree, you two?”
“Gino and I? Yes, always.”
“Which of the two of you is in command?”
“Gino, of course.”
I noticed that she had contrived to repeat the name of Gino each time she had opened her mouth. I had spoken lightly and almost jokingly; she had answered me all the time with the utmost seriousness. Then Pasetti came in again with the ice-pail and called out to me: “Your wife’s on the telephone, Riccardo.”
For some unaccountable reason I felt my heart sink, with a sudden return of my usual unhappiness. Mechanically I rose and started towards the door. Pasetti added: “The telephone’s in the kitchen—but if you like you can answer it here...I’ve switched it through.”
The telephone was, in fact, on a cabinet beside the fireplace. I took off the receiver and heard Emilia’s voice say to me: “I’m sorry, but today you’ll have to go out to lunch somewhere...I’m going to my mother’s.”
“But why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I didn’t want to disturb you at your work.”
“All right,” I said, “I’ll go and eat at a restaurant.”
“We’ll meet later; good-bye.”
She rang off and I turned towards Pasetti. “Riccardo,” he asked at once, “are you not lunching at home?”
“No, I’m going to a restaurant.”
“Well, stay and have lunch with us...pot-luck, of course... but we’d be very pleased.”
An inexplicable feeling of despondency had come over me at the thought of having lunch alone at a restaurant, probably because I had been looking forward with pleasure to announcing to Emilia that the script was finished. Perhaps I should not have done this after all, knowing, as I have said, that she was no longer interested in what I did; but at first I had yielded to the old habit of our past relationship. Pasetti’s invitation gave me pleasure; and I accepted it with almost excessive gratitude. He, in the meantime, had uncorked the two
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