5.

I passed many evenings thus, alone in the room, waiting for Cilia, pacing up and down or lying on the bed, absorbed in that silent emptiness as the dusk slowly deepened into dark. Subdued or distant noises – the shouts of children, the bustle of the street, the cries of birds – reached me only faintly. Cilia soon realized that I didn’t want to be bothered with her when I came home, and she would put her head out of Amalia’s room, still sewing, to hear me pass and call to me. I didn’t care whether she heard me or not, but if she did I would say something or other. Once I asked Amalia, quite seriously, why she didn’t come up to our room any more, where there was plenty of light. Amalia said nothing; Cilia looked away and her face grew red.

One night, for something to say, I told her about Malagigi and made her laugh gaily at that funny little man. Then I added: ‘Fancy him making a fortune and going to China! I wish it had been me!’

‘I should like it, too,’ Cilia sighed, ‘if we went to China.’

I gave a wry grin. ‘In a photograph, perhaps, if we sent one to Malagigi.’

‘Why not one for ourselves?’ she said. ‘Oh, George, we haven’t ever had a photograph of us together.’

‘No money.’

‘Do let’s have a photograph.’

‘But we oughtn’t to afford it. We’re together day and night, and anyway I don’t like photographs.’

‘We are married and we have no record of it. Let’s have just one!’

I did not reply.

‘It wouldn’t cost much. I’ll pay for it.’

‘Get it done with Amalia.’

Next morning Cilia lay with her face to the wall, her hair over her eyes. She would not take any notice of me, or even look at me. I caressed her a little, then realized she was resisting me, so I jumped out of bed in a rage. Cilia got up, too, washed her face and gave me some coffee, her manner quiet and cautious, her eyes downcast. I went away without speaking to her.

An hour later I came back again. ‘How much is there in the savings book?’ I shouted. Cilia looked at me in surprise. She was sitting on the stool, unhappy and bewildered.

‘I don’t know. You’ve got it. About three hundred lire, I think.’

‘Nearly three hundred and sixteen. Here it is,’ I flung the roll of notes on the table. ‘Spend it as you like. Let’s have a high old time! It’s all yours.’

Cilia stood up and came over to face me. ‘Why have you done this, George?’

‘Because I’m a fool. Listen! I’d rather not talk about it. When money is in your pocket it doesn’t count any more. D’you still want that photograph?’

‘But, George, I want you to be happy.’

‘I am happy.’

‘I do love you so much.’

‘I love you, too.’ I took her by the arm, sat down, and pulled her on my knee. ‘Put your head here, on my shoulder.’ My voice was indulgent and intimate. Cilia said nothing and leaned her cheek against mine. ‘When shall we go?’ I asked.