Giovanni's Room Page 13

  'Darling,' said Hella, as she reached me, 'you stay and have a drink if you want to, I can't, I really can't, I don't feel well at all.' She turned to Giovanni. 'Please forgive me,' she said, 'but I've just come back from Spain and I've hardly sat down a moment since I got off the train. Another time, truly—but I must get some sleep tonight.' She smiled and held out her hand but he did not seem to see it.

  'I'll walk Hella home,' I said, 'and then I'll come back. If you'll tell me where you're going to be.'

  Giovanni laughed, abruptly. 'Why, we will be in the quarter,' he said. 'We will not be difficult to find.'

  'I am sorry,' said Jacques, to Hella, 'that you do not feel well. Perhaps another time.' And Hella's hand, which was still uncertainly outstretched, he bowed over and kissed a second time. He straightened and looked at me. 'You must bring Hella to dinner at my house one night.' He made a face. 'There is no need to hide your fiancée from us.'

  'No need whatever,' said Giovanni. 'She is very charming. And we'—with a grin, to Hella —'will try to be charming, too.'

  'Well,' I said, and took Hella by the arm, 'I'll see you later.'

  If I am not here' said Giovanni, both vindictive and near tears, lay the time you come back again, I will be at home. You remember where that is—? it is near a zoo.'

  'I remember,' I said. I started backing away, as though I were backing out of a cage. 'I'll see you later. À tout à l'heure.'

  'A la prochaine,' said Giovanni.

  I felt their eyes on our backs as we walked away from them. For a long while Hella was silent—possibly because, like me, she was afraid to say anything. Then: 'I really can't stand that man. He gives me the creeps.' After a moment: 'I didn't know you'd seen so much of him while I was away.'

  'I didn't,' I said. To do something with my hands, to give myself a moment of privacy, I stopped and lit a cigarette. I felt her eyes. But she was not suspicious; she was only troubled.

  'And who is Giovanni?' she asked, when we started walking again. She gave a little laugh. 1 just realized that I haven't even asked you where you were living. Are you living with him?'

  We've been sharing a maid's room out at the end of Paris,' I said.

  'Then it wasn't very nice of you,' said Hella, 'to go off for so long without any warning.'

  'Well, my God,' I said, 'He's only my roommate. How was I to know he'd start dragging the river just because I stayed out a couple of nights?'

  'Jacques said you left him there without any money, without any cigarettes, or anything, and you didn't even tell him you were going to be with me.'

  There are lots of things I didn't tell Giovanni. But he's never made any kind of scene before— I guess he must be drunk. Ill talk to him later.'

  'Are you going to go back there later?'

  'Well,' I said, If I don't go back there later, 111 go on over to the room. I've been meaning to do that anyway.' I grinned. I have to get shaved.'

  Hella sighed. I didn't mean to get your friends mad at you,' she said. 'You ought to go back and have a drink with them. You said you were going to.'

  'Well, I may, I may not. I'm not married to them, you know.'

  'Well, the fact that you're going to be married to me doesn't mean you have to break your word to your friends. It doesn't even mean,' she added, shortly, 'that I have to like your friends.'

  Hella,' I said, I am perfectly aware of that.'

  We turned off the boulevard, toward her hotel.

  He's very intense, isn't he?' she said. I was staring at the dark mound of the Senate, which ended our dark, slightly uphill street.

  'Who is?'

  'Giovanni. He's certainly very fond of you.'

  'He's Italian,' I said. Italians are theatrical.'

  'Well, this one,' she laughed, 'must be special, even in Italy! How long have you been living with him?'

  'A couple of months.' I threw away my cigarette. 'I ran out of money while you were away —you know, I'm still waiting for money—and I moved in with him because it was cheaper. At that time he had a job and was living with his mistress most of the time.'

  'Oh?' she said. 'He has a mistress?'

  'He had a mistress,' I said. 'He also had a job. He's lost both.'

  'Poor boy,' she said. 'No wonder he looks so lost.'

  He'll be alright,' I said, briefly. We were before her door. She pressed the night bell.

  'Is he a very good friend of Jacques?' she asked.

  'Perhaps,' I said, 'not quite good enough to please Jacques.'

  She laughed. I always feel a cold wind go over me,' she said, 'when I find myself in the presence of a man who dislikes women as much as Jacques does.'

  'Well, then,' I said, 'well just keep him away from you. We don't want no cold winds blowing over this girl.' I kissed her on the tip of her nose. At the same moment there was a rumble from deep within the hotel and the door unlocked itself with a small, violent shudder. Hella looked humorously into the blackness. I always wonder,' she said, 'if I dare go in.' Then she looked up at me. 'Well? Do you want to have a drink upstairs before you go back to join your friends?'

  'Sure,' I said. We tiptoed into the hotel, closing the door gently behind us. My fingers finally found the minuterie, and the weak, yellow fight spilled over us. A voice, completely unintelligible, shouted out at us and Hella shouted back her name, which she tried to pronounce with a French accent. As we started up the stairs, the light went out and Hella and I began to giggle like two children. We were unable to find the minute-switch on any of the landings—I don't know why we both found this so hilarious, but we did, and we held on to each other, giggling, all the way to Hella's top-floor room.

  Tell me about Giovanni,' she asked, much later, while we lay in bed and watched the black night tease her stiff, white curtains. He interests me.'

  That's a pretty tactless thing to say at this moment,' I told her. 'What the hell do you mean, he interests you?'

  'I mean who he is, what he thinks about. How he got that face.'

  'What's the matter with his face?'

  'Nothing. He's very beautiful, as a matter of fact. But there's something in that face—so old-fashioned.'

  'Go to sleep,' I said. 'You're babbling.'

  'How did you meet him?'

  'Oh. In a bar one drunken night, with lots of other people.'

  'Was Jacques there?'

  'I don't remember. Yes, I guess so. I guess he met Giovanni at the same time I did.'

  'What made you go to live with him?'

  'I told you. I was broke and he had this room—'

  'But that can't have been the only reason.'

  'Oh, well,' I said, 'I liked him.'

  'And don't you like him any more?'

  'I'm very fond of Giovanni. You didn't see him at his best tonight, but he's a very nice man.' I laughed; covered by the night, emboldened by Hella's body and my own, and protected by the tone of my voice, I found great relief in adding: 'I love him, in a way. I really do.'

  'He seems to feel that you have a funny way of showing it.'

  'Oh, well,' I said, 'these people have another style from us. They're much more demonstrative. I can't help it. I just can't—do all that.'

  'Yes,' she said, thoughtfully, I've noticed that.'

  'You've noticed what?'

  'Kids here—they think nothing of showing a lot of affection for each other. It's sort of a shock at first. Then you begin to think it's sort of nice.'

  It is sort of nice,' I said.

  'Well,' said Hella, 'I think we ought to take Giovanni out to dinner or something one of these days. After all, he did sort of rescue you.'

  'That's a good idea,' I said. I don't know what he's doing these days but I imagine he'll have a free evening.'

  'Does he hang around with Jacques much?'

  'No, I don't think so. I think he just ran into Jacques tonight.' I paused. 'I'm beginning to see,' I said, carefully, 'that kids like Giovanni are in a difficult position. This isn't, you know, the land of opportun
ity—there's no provision made for them. Giovanni's poor, I mean he comes from poor folks, and there isn't really much that he can do. And for what he can do, there's terrific competition. And, at that, very little money, not enough for them to be able to think of building any kind of future. That's why so many of them wander the streets and turn into gigolos and gangsters and God knows what.'

  'It's cold,' she said, 'out here in the Old World.'

  'Well, it's pretty cold out there in the New One, too,' I said. 'It's cold out here, period.'

  She laughed. 'But we—we have our love to keep us warm.'

  We're not the first people who thought that as they lay in bed.' Nevertheless, we lay silent and still in each other's arms for awhile. 'Hella,' I said at last.

  'Yes?'

  'Hella, when the money gets here, let's take it and get out of Paris.'

  'Get out of Paris? Where do you want to go?'

  'I don't care. Just out. I'm sick of Paris. I want to leave it for awhile. Let's go south. Maybe there'll be some sun.'

  'Shall we get married in the south?'

  'Hella,' I said, you have to believe me, I can't do anything or decide anything. I can't even see straight until we get out of this town. I don't want to get married here; I don't even want to think about getting married here. Let's just get out.'

  'I didn't know you felt this way,' she said.

  'I've been living in Giovanni's room for months,' I said, 'and I just can't stand it anymore. I have to get out of there. Please.'

  She laughed nervously and moved slightly away from me. 'Well, I really don't see why getting out of Giovanni's room means getting out of Paris.'

  I sighed. 'Please, Hella. I don't feel like going into long explanations now. Maybe it's just that if I stay in Paris I'll keep running into Giovanni and—' I stopped.

  'Why should that disturb you?'

  'Well—I can't do anything to help him and I can't stand having him watch me—as though— I'm an American, Hella, he thinks I'm rich' I paused and sat up, looking outward. She watched me. 'He's a very nice man, as I say, but he's very persistent—and he's got this thing about me, he thinks I'm God. And that room is so stinking and dirty. And soon winterTl be here and if s going to be cold—' I turned to her again and took her in my arms. 'Look. Let's just go. I'll explain a lot of things to you later—later— when we get out.'

  There was a long silence.

  'And you want to leave right away?' she said.

  'Yes. As soon as that money comes, let's rent a house.'

  'You're sure,' she said, 'that you don't just want to go back to the States?'

  I groaned. 'No. Not yet. That isn't what I mean.'

  She kissed me. I don't care where we go,' she said, 'as long as we're together.' Then she pushed me away. 'It's almost morning,' she said. 'We'd better get some sleep.'

  I got to Giovanni's room very late the next evening. I had been walking by the river with Hella and, later, I drank too much in several bistros. The light crashed on as I came into the room and Giovanni sat up in bed, crying out in a voice of terror, 'Qui est là? Qui est là?'

  I stopped in the doorway, weaving a little in the light, and I said, 'It's me, Giovanni. Shut up.'

  Giovanni stared at me and turned on his side, facing the wall, and began to cry.

  I thought, Sweet Jesus! and I carefully closed the door. I took my cigarettes out of my jacket pocket and hung my jacket over the chair. With my cigarettes in my hand I went to the bed and leaned over Giovanni. I said, 'Baby, stop crying. Please stop crying.'

  Giovanni turned and looked at me. His eyes were red and wet, but he wore a strange smile, it was composed of cruelty and shame and delight. He held out his arms and I leaned down, brushing his hair from his eyes.

  'You smell of wine,' said Giovanni, then.

  'I haven't been drinking wine. Is that what frightened you? Is that why you are crying?'

  'No.'

  'What is the matter?'

  'Why have you gone away from me?'

  I did not know what to say. Giovanni turned to the wall again. I had hoped, I had supposed that I would feel nothing : but I felt a tightening in a far corner of my heart, as though a finger had touched me there.

  'I have never reached you,' said Giovanni. 'You have never really been here. I do not think you have ever lied to me, but I know that you have never told me the truth—why? Sometimes you were here all day long and you read or you opened the window or you cooked something— and I watched you—and you never said anything—and you looked at me with such eyes, as though you did not see me. All day, while I worked, to make this room for you.'

  I said nothing. I looked beyond Giovanni's head at the square windows which held back the feeble moonlight.

  'What are you doing all the time? And why do you say nothing? You are evil, you know, and sometimes when you smiled at me, I hated you. I wanted to strike you. I wanted to make you bleed. You smiled at me the way you smiled at everyone, you told me what you told everyone—and you tell nothing but lies. What are you always hiding? And do you think I did not know when you made love to me, you were making love to no one? No one! Or everyone— but not me, certainly. I am nothing to you, nothing, and you bring me fever but no delight.'

  I moved, looking for a cigarette. They were in my hand. I lit one. In a moment, I thought, I will say something. I will say something and then I will walk out of this room forever.

  'You know I cannot be alone. I have told you. What is the matter? Can we never have a life together?'

  He began to cry again. I watched the hot tears roll from the corners of his eyes onto the dirty pillow.

  'If you cannot love me, I will die. Before you came I wanted to die, I have told you many times. It is cruel to have made me want to live only to make my death more bloody.'

  I wanted to say so many things. Yet, when I opened my mouth, I made no sound. And yet— I do not know what I felt for Giovanni. I felt nothing for Giovanni. I felt terror and pity and a rising lust.

  He took my cigarette from my lips and puffed on it, sitting up in bed, his hair in his eyes again.

  'I have never known anyone like you before. I was never like this before you came. Listen. In Italy I had a woman and she was very good to me. She loved me, she loved me, and she took care of me and she was always there when I came in from work, in from the vineyards, and there was never any trouble between us, never. I was young then and did not know the things I learned later or the terrible things you have taught me. I thought all women were like that I thought all men were like me—I thought I was like all other men. I was not unhappy then and I was not lonely—for she was there—and I did not want to die. I wanted to stay forever in our village and work in the vineyards and drink the wine we made and make love to my girl. I have told you about my village—? It is very old and in the south, it is on a hill. At night, when we walked by the wall, the world seemed to fall down before us, the whole, far-off, dirty world. I did not ever want to see it. Once we made love under the wall.

  'Yes, I wanted to stay there forever and eat much spaghetti and drink much wine and make many babies and grow fat. You would not have liked me if I had stayed. I can see you, many years from now, coming through our village in the ugly, fat, American motor car you will surely have by then and looking at me and looking at all of us and tasting our wine and shitting on us with those empty smiles Americans wear everywhere and which you wear all the time and driving off with a great roar of the motors and a great sound of tires and telling all the other Americans you meet that they must come and see our village because it is so picturesque. And you will have no idea of the life there, dripping and bursting and beautiful and terrible, as you have no idea of my life now. But I think I would have been happier there and I would not have minded your smiles. I would have had my life. I have lain here many nights, waiting for you to come home, and thought how far away is my village and how terrible it is to be in this cold city, among people whom I hate, where it is cold and wet and neve
r dry and hot as it was there, and where Giovanni has no one to talk to, and no one to be with, and where he has found a lover who is neither man nor woman, nothing that I can know or touch. You do not know, do you, what it is like to he awake at night and wait for someone to come home? But I am sure you do not know. You do not know anything. You do not know any of the terrible things—that is why you smile and dance the way you do and you think that the comedy you are playing with the short-haired, moon-faced little girl is love.'

  He dropped the cigarette to the floor, where it lay burning faintly. He began to cry again. I 'looked at the room, thinking: I cannot bear it.

  I left my village one wild, sweet day. I will never forget that day. It was the day of my death—I wish it had been the day of my death. I remember the sun was hot and scratchy on the back of my neck as I walked the road away from my village and the road went upward and I walked bent over. I remember everything, the brown dust at my feet, and the little pebbles which rushed before me, and the short trees along the road and all the flat houses and all their colors under the sun. I remember I was weeping, but not as I am weeping now, much worse, more terrible—since I am with y m, I cannot even cry as I cried then. That was the first time in my life that I wanted to die. I had just buried my baby in the churchyard where my father and my father's fathers were and I had left my girl screaming in my mother's house. Yes, I had made a baby but it was barn dead. It was all grey and twisted when I saw it and it made no sound—and we spanked it on the buttocks and we sprinkled it with holy water and we prayed but it never made a sound, it was dead. It was a little boy, it would have been a wonderful, strong man, perhaps even the kind of man you and Jacques and Guillaume and all your disgusting band of fairies spend all your days and nights looking for, and dreaming of—but it was dead, it was my baby and we had made it, my girl and I, and it was dead. When I knew that it was dead, I took our crucifix off the wall and I spat on it and I threw it on the floor and my mother and my girl screamed and I went out. We buried it right away, the next day, and then I left my village and I came to this city where surely God has punished me for all my sins and for spitting on His holy Son, and where I will surely die. I do not think that I will ever see my village again.'