protested.
“Right!” she said. I was utterly astonished by Gisella’s behavior and also rather annoyed by Astarita’s persistent silence.
“But if I tell you —” I began.
“Right!” she repeated. “Anyway, don’t get so excited, we won’t say anything to Gino.”
Meanwhile we had reached the square, so we got out of the car and began to walk, in the mild and brilliant October sun, along the Corso among the crowd dressed up in their Sunday best. Astarita did not leave my side for one moment; he was still serious, indeed gloomy, carried his head stiffly above his high collar and kept one hand in his pocket, the other dangling at his side. He looked as though he were my keeper rather than my companion. Gisella, on the contrary, was laughing and joking with Riccardo and many people turned around to stare at us. We went into a café and had a vermouth standing at the bar. I suddenly noticed Astarita mumbling something threateningly and asked him what was the matter.
“There’s an idiot over there by the door staring at you,” he said heatedly.
I turned around and saw a slim, fair young man standing in the doorway of the café looking at me. “Why not?” I said cheerfully. “Suppose he does look at me?”
“It wouldn’t take much to make me go over and hit him in the face.”
“If you do, I’ll never look at you again and I won’t say a single word more to you,” I said, feeling rather annoyed. “You’ve no right to interfere — you have nothing to do with me.”
He said nothing and went over to the cash desk to pay for the drinks. We left the café and continued our walk along the Corso. The sun, the noise, and the movement of the crowd, all those healthy, rosy faces of the country people, cheered me up. When we reached an isolated little square at the end of one of the roads crossing the Corso, I suddenly said, “There, look! — if only I had a little house like that one over there, I’d be delighted to live there.” And I pointed to a simple little two-storied house in front of a church.
“God forbid!” said Gisella. “Fancy living in the provinces — in Viterbo, what’s more! I wouldn’t, even if I was smothered in gold.”
“You’d soon be fed up with it, Adriana,” remarked Riccardo. “When you’re used to living in a big town, you can’t settle down in the provinces.”
“You’re wrong,” I said. “I’d gladly live here with a man who loved me — four clean little rooms, an arbor, four windows — I wouldn’t want anything more.” I was quite sincere in what I said, because I imagined myself living in that little house in Viterbo with Gino. “What do you think?” I asked, turning to Astarita.
“I’d live here with you,” he replied in an undertone, trying to avoid being overheard by the others.
“The trouble with you, Adriana,” said Gisella, “is that you don’t aim high enough. Those who ask too little of life get nothing.”
“But I don’t want anything,” I objected.
“You want to marry Gino, though,” said Riccardo.
“Yes, that I do want.”
It was late by now, the Corso was emptying itself, and we entered the restaurant. The ground-floor room was packed, mostly with peasants in their Sunday best who had come to Viterbo for the market. Gisella turned up her nose, saying it stank enough to take your breath away, and asked the manager if we could go up to the second floor to eat. He said we could and led the way into a long, narrow room with only one window that gave onto the side street. He opened the shutters and closed the windows, then spread a cloth on the rustic table that filled most of the room. I remember the walls were covered with a faded wallpaper, torn in places, with a pattern of flowers and birds. Besides the table there was only a little glass-fronted sideboard full of dishes.
Meanwhile Gisella was walking around the room examining everything, even looking through the window that gave onto the side street. At last she
“Right!” she said. I was utterly astonished by Gisella’s behavior and also rather annoyed by Astarita’s persistent silence.
“But if I tell you —” I began.
“Right!” she repeated. “Anyway, don’t get so excited, we won’t say anything to Gino.”
Meanwhile we had reached the square, so we got out of the car and began to walk, in the mild and brilliant October sun, along the Corso among the crowd dressed up in their Sunday best. Astarita did not leave my side for one moment; he was still serious, indeed gloomy, carried his head stiffly above his high collar and kept one hand in his pocket, the other dangling at his side. He looked as though he were my keeper rather than my companion. Gisella, on the contrary, was laughing and joking with Riccardo and many people turned around to stare at us. We went into a café and had a vermouth standing at the bar. I suddenly noticed Astarita mumbling something threateningly and asked him what was the matter.
“There’s an idiot over there by the door staring at you,” he said heatedly.
I turned around and saw a slim, fair young man standing in the doorway of the café looking at me. “Why not?” I said cheerfully. “Suppose he does look at me?”
“It wouldn’t take much to make me go over and hit him in the face.”
“If you do, I’ll never look at you again and I won’t say a single word more to you,” I said, feeling rather annoyed. “You’ve no right to interfere — you have nothing to do with me.”
He said nothing and went over to the cash desk to pay for the drinks. We left the café and continued our walk along the Corso. The sun, the noise, and the movement of the crowd, all those healthy, rosy faces of the country people, cheered me up. When we reached an isolated little square at the end of one of the roads crossing the Corso, I suddenly said, “There, look! — if only I had a little house like that one over there, I’d be delighted to live there.” And I pointed to a simple little two-storied house in front of a church.
“God forbid!” said Gisella. “Fancy living in the provinces — in Viterbo, what’s more! I wouldn’t, even if I was smothered in gold.”
“You’d soon be fed up with it, Adriana,” remarked Riccardo. “When you’re used to living in a big town, you can’t settle down in the provinces.”
“You’re wrong,” I said. “I’d gladly live here with a man who loved me — four clean little rooms, an arbor, four windows — I wouldn’t want anything more.” I was quite sincere in what I said, because I imagined myself living in that little house in Viterbo with Gino. “What do you think?” I asked, turning to Astarita.
“I’d live here with you,” he replied in an undertone, trying to avoid being overheard by the others.
“The trouble with you, Adriana,” said Gisella, “is that you don’t aim high enough. Those who ask too little of life get nothing.”
“But I don’t want anything,” I objected.
“You want to marry Gino, though,” said Riccardo.
“Yes, that I do want.”
It was late by now, the Corso was emptying itself, and we entered the restaurant. The ground-floor room was packed, mostly with peasants in their Sunday best who had come to Viterbo for the market. Gisella turned up her nose, saying it stank enough to take your breath away, and asked the manager if we could go up to the second floor to eat. He said we could and led the way into a long, narrow room with only one window that gave onto the side street. He opened the shutters and closed the windows, then spread a cloth on the rustic table that filled most of the room. I remember the walls were covered with a faded wallpaper, torn in places, with a pattern of flowers and birds. Besides the table there was only a little glass-fronted sideboard full of dishes.
Meanwhile Gisella was walking around the room examining everything, even looking through the window that gave onto the side street. At last she
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