The March of Time
ANTONIO HAD INVITED ME TO DINNER. HARDLY VERY cheerful, the two of us in the great bleak house, in that sumptuous shadowy room, on either side of the long table. But he was so very much alone, and probably hated it.
I could see his kindly, aristocratic face framed between the flickering lights from two silver candlesticks: an absurd affectation, of course, the candlesticks, but certainly very elegant. Calmly, he told me that she was coming back; he was expecting her tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest. Knowing the whole story as I did, I looked at him, relieved; other people’s happiness is always pleasant. A silent waiter removed our soup plates unobtrusively. Another, before I’d noticed, poured out the wine.
“I’ve been working the whole day getting her rooms in order,” said Antonio, “they’ve been empty for two years. I’ll show you afterward . . . you can’t imagine what a difference a woman’s voice makes to this house. . . .” Usually so proud and reserved, he was obviously feeling the need to confide in someone, like a child.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of a valet holding a large fish, decorated with mayonnaise, pistachios, herbs and even a sort of trophy of silver and other colored paper which was placed in its mouth. It would have been enough for ten people. The valet set it on a side table, then the servants crept out noiselessly. We waited for a few moments, talking. A bell sounded from the other end of the great house; Antonio must have pressed an invisible button placed on the floor or under the table. But no one came.
“They’ve left us,” he said at last, smiling, went to the door and called, “Rosa, Rosa!”
“Coming,” replied a voice, and a few moments later a worn-looking little maid appeared, in a white overall. “I’m awfully sorry,” explained Antonio, “but one must move with the times.”
Rather embarrassed, I looked around me. Where were the tapestries? I’d noticed them in their usual places on coming in, with their gloomy ancient warriors, but they were there no longer. “Where are the tapestries?” I asked him. He waved his right hand mildly, resigned and indifferent, as though to say that they were all gone, gone . . .
Meanwhile the young girl, apparently not new to her task, was proving, if anything, too efficient. As soon as we’d finished the fish (which was exquisite) she removed our plates, banging them unceremoniously one on top of the other, and gave us fruit plates. What about the meat course, I wondered, and the savory? I was well acquainted with Antonio’s habits. But he said nothing. In the interim, without my noticing, the girl had removed the silver candlesticks. I looked for them on the surrounding furniture. There was none. It had all disappeared as though by magic.
Then there appeared a small straw basket containing four apples. “They’re not much good,” said Antonio, taking one, “I think this is the least objectionable.” And he passed it to me across the table (across the immense table, which could seat two dozen people).
“Later I’ll show you the samples of the material for the furniture.” Antonio spoke again. “You must help me to choose. You know how hard she is to please. I’d like her to find her room all ready when she comes.”
“But when did you say she was coming?”
“Next month, I hope; anyhow, that’s what she said.”
So time was rushing by, carrying him down toward the darkness through ever-increasing degrees of humiliation. “But be serious!” I wanted to shout, for I knew him capable of being strong-minded if he wanted to. But he sat there motionless: he didn’t attempt action or resistance. Yet despite these blows of fortune his face rose unchanged, even in some way victorious, from this whirlpool of events.
He shivered. “Yes,” I said, “I’m cold too. Why don’t you light the fire?”
He muttered something in surprise, gesticulated.
I looked around. The walls of the small dining room ran smoothly from floor to ceiling without a sign of a fireplace. It was dimly lit by the central light, from which hung the bell, and which projected our two shadows onto the wall. A damp, cold night. Antonio rang the bell and it sounded next door. But the maid didn’t come. “I was forgetting,” whispered Antonio as though he were letting me into a secret. “I’m quite alone now, you know,” and he rose from the table. “I’ll have coffee ready in a couple of minutes, if you don’t mind waiting.” When he was at the door there was a sudden ominous roar in the distance. The walls shook a little. Then silence. He turned around for a moment and smiled. Then I heard the sound of crockery in the kitchen.
“It’s my own particular blend,” he said a few minutes later, stirring it in the cup. “Luckily I’ve got quite a bit put aside. Not for me, I don’t care for it particularly. But if she were to come back . . .” He’d put a woolen scarf around his neck. It was in fact icily cold. “After all, if she were to come . . .” he went on, “it is light here in the evenings”; he appeared to think that this would be likely to be a great attraction for her. “When it’s really cold we’ll light the stove. I’ve still got a bit of wood in the cellar. Or do you think? . . .”
What could I reply? “No, no,” I said, “I’m certain she’ll come back. She’ll be fine here.” There was a sudden whistle down in the road, answered by another, farther away: rather sinister. “That’s how it always is,” said Antonio, doing up his shoe, “it’s been like that for some time now.” At that point the light went out.
Pitch dark. All that could be seen, through a hole in the ceiling, was a patch of night sky, unbroken cloud. Antonio was sitting on a
