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Authors: Alberto Moravia
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Then, leaning towards me and lowering her voice, she said: 'We are not rich, Dino, we are very rich. Thanks to your mother, you are today a very rich man.'
'What does "very rich" mean?'
'"Very rich" means something more than merely "rich".'
'But less than "extremely rich"?'
'Yes, less than "extremely rich".'
My mother this time answered me a little absent-mindedly. She had put on a pair of nun-like spectacles, rimless and with gold arms, and was turning over the pages of her black ledger: 'Anyhow,' she said, 'there's nothing better than figures to make you understand, and so ... and so ... where is it? ... ah, here we are ... to make you understand, as I was saying, what being very rich means.'
I realized that she was on the point of providing me with the statement she had promised me, and all at once I was filled with an uncontrollable repugnance. 'No, no, please,' I exclaimed eagerly, 'I don't in the least want to know what being very rich means. I'll take your word for it.'
My mother raised her eyes from the ledger, took off her spectacles and looked at me. 'But you've got to know,' she said, 'if only, as I said before, so that you can help me with the management of our property.'
I was on the point of crying out violently: 'But I don't want to help you with the management,' when fortunately Rita came in with the coffee-tray. My mother, at the sight of her, seemed to retreat into herself, like a priest at the approach of an unbeliever. She closed the ledger with a sharp snap and said: 'You pour out the coffee, Rita.' Then, while Rita, standing beside me, was pouring out the coffee into the little cups, I wondered how I could possibly escape this intolerable thing: the explanation of what it meant to be very rich. Rita was close to me again now and—whether on purpose or not, I did not understand—was lightly touching my knees with her leg. Then she turned towards me and held out my cup. Almost instinctively I gave a jerk with my arm. The cup upset in the saucer and the coffee went on to my light-coloured trousers so that I felt it warm and wet on my skin. Pretending to be alarmed, I exclaimed: 'Oh hell, my trousers!'
'Rita, why can't you be more careful?' said my mother reprovingly, having neither seen nor understood anything of what had happened.
'Rita had nothing to do with it,' I hastened to say; 'it was my fault. But now my trousers are in a mess.'
'It's nothing,' said Rita: 'there wasn't even sugar in it. I'll bring some water and wash out the stain.'
This solution did not please my mother, who at once protested authoritatively, in her most unpleasant voice: 'Not at all, stains can't be washed out of clothes when people are wearing them. Signor Dino must take off his trousers, then you can wash out the stain and iron the trousers.'
I looked at Rita as she stood beside the table, her face set in an expression of obsequious patience. Then, in a serious voice, she asked: 'Is Signor Dino going to take off his trousers at once, or am I to wait?'
'Coffee leaves a mark,' said my mother; 'better take them off at once, Dino.'
'But I can't take them off here, in this room.'
I noticed that Rita turned her head aside, perhaps to hide a smile. 'Go upstairs then, to your own room,' said my mother. 'Take off your trousers and give them to Rita. Then put on the dressing-gown which is in the cupboard and come down again. In the meantime I'll be getting some papers that I want to show you.'
So we went out, Rita and I, she almost running in front of me and saying: 'I'll go on ahead because that room has been shut up for a long time and at any rate I can open the windows '; and I following her and reflecting, with some degree of astonishment, that everything was working out according to the unwritten but inflexible rules for situations of this particular type: the mother who herself provides the son with a pretext for retiring with the maid; the latter, and the son, going off together to the bed upon which they will lie
'What does "very rich" mean?'
'"Very rich" means something more than merely "rich".'
'But less than "extremely rich"?'
'Yes, less than "extremely rich".'
My mother this time answered me a little absent-mindedly. She had put on a pair of nun-like spectacles, rimless and with gold arms, and was turning over the pages of her black ledger: 'Anyhow,' she said, 'there's nothing better than figures to make you understand, and so ... and so ... where is it? ... ah, here we are ... to make you understand, as I was saying, what being very rich means.'
I realized that she was on the point of providing me with the statement she had promised me, and all at once I was filled with an uncontrollable repugnance. 'No, no, please,' I exclaimed eagerly, 'I don't in the least want to know what being very rich means. I'll take your word for it.'
My mother raised her eyes from the ledger, took off her spectacles and looked at me. 'But you've got to know,' she said, 'if only, as I said before, so that you can help me with the management of our property.'
I was on the point of crying out violently: 'But I don't want to help you with the management,' when fortunately Rita came in with the coffee-tray. My mother, at the sight of her, seemed to retreat into herself, like a priest at the approach of an unbeliever. She closed the ledger with a sharp snap and said: 'You pour out the coffee, Rita.' Then, while Rita, standing beside me, was pouring out the coffee into the little cups, I wondered how I could possibly escape this intolerable thing: the explanation of what it meant to be very rich. Rita was close to me again now and—whether on purpose or not, I did not understand—was lightly touching my knees with her leg. Then she turned towards me and held out my cup. Almost instinctively I gave a jerk with my arm. The cup upset in the saucer and the coffee went on to my light-coloured trousers so that I felt it warm and wet on my skin. Pretending to be alarmed, I exclaimed: 'Oh hell, my trousers!'
'Rita, why can't you be more careful?' said my mother reprovingly, having neither seen nor understood anything of what had happened.
'Rita had nothing to do with it,' I hastened to say; 'it was my fault. But now my trousers are in a mess.'
'It's nothing,' said Rita: 'there wasn't even sugar in it. I'll bring some water and wash out the stain.'
This solution did not please my mother, who at once protested authoritatively, in her most unpleasant voice: 'Not at all, stains can't be washed out of clothes when people are wearing them. Signor Dino must take off his trousers, then you can wash out the stain and iron the trousers.'
I looked at Rita as she stood beside the table, her face set in an expression of obsequious patience. Then, in a serious voice, she asked: 'Is Signor Dino going to take off his trousers at once, or am I to wait?'
'Coffee leaves a mark,' said my mother; 'better take them off at once, Dino.'
'But I can't take them off here, in this room.'
I noticed that Rita turned her head aside, perhaps to hide a smile. 'Go upstairs then, to your own room,' said my mother. 'Take off your trousers and give them to Rita. Then put on the dressing-gown which is in the cupboard and come down again. In the meantime I'll be getting some papers that I want to show you.'
So we went out, Rita and I, she almost running in front of me and saying: 'I'll go on ahead because that room has been shut up for a long time and at any rate I can open the windows '; and I following her and reflecting, with some degree of astonishment, that everything was working out according to the unwritten but inflexible rules for situations of this particular type: the mother who herself provides the son with a pretext for retiring with the maid; the latter, and the son, going off together to the bed upon which they will lie
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