Boredom by Alberto Moravia Read Free Book Online

up the Via Appia in the direction of the Castelli. The dull, sultry day had caused a dark, shifting, volatile ring of thundery-looking clouds to form thickly over Monte Cavo; all along the Via Appia the pines and cypresses, the ruins, the hedges, the fields were dim with dust and burnt up by the heat of summer. My mother went on praising the car to me in a casual, conversational manner, as though she were gradually discovering its merits. Without saying a word, I drove on up the Via Appia as far as the fork, bore to the left, very fast all the time, went down to the Via Appia Nuova, turned around at the traffic signals and came back again.
    “What d’you think of it?” asked my mother, as we came again into the Via Appia Antica.
    “I think it’s a splendid car in every way. Anyhow, I knew it already.”
    “What do you mean, when it’s a new type that’s scarcely been out a month?”
    “I mean, I already knew cars of this make.”
    We reached the gates, the drive with the cypresses, the villa with the open space in front of it. I did a half turn, stopped, pulled up the hand brake, and then, after sitting motionless and silent for a moment, turned abruptly to my mother and said: “Thank you.”
    “I bought it,” she answered, “mainly because I liked it so much. If I hadn’t bought it for you, I should have bought it for myself.”
    It appeared to me, however, that she was expecting something more—to judge, at least, from her discontented, exacting expression. “I do really like it very much; thank you,” I said again. And, leaning forward, I lightly touched with my lips the dry, rough make-up on her thin cheek. In order, perhaps, to conceal the satisfaction that my affectionate gesture gave her, she said: “The dealer suggested that before using the car you should read the instructions for driving and maintenance,” and she opened a compartment in the instrument panel and showed me a yellow handbook; “because these cars are delicate and easily damaged.”
    “Yes, I’ll read it.”
    “With this car you could go touring. For instance, when the autumn comes, you could go to Spain, or to France.”
    “I’ll go in the spring, I can’t go this autumn.”
    “Yes, of course, in the spring too. The car has a big luggage compartment. It’ll take three suitcases.”
    My mother seemed now to be really satisfied; so much so that some of her “good form” had given way and it could be seen distinctly—which was most unusual—that she was content. As we walked across to the house my mother pointed to the left, to a long, straight path, narrow and flanked by tall laurel bushes, at the far end of which one caught a glimpse of a small, red, building. “Your studio,” she said. “It’s remained exactly as it was. Nothing has been touched. If you like, you can go and start painting there tomorrow.”
    “But I’ve already told you I’ve decided to give up painting.”
    She made no reply; perhaps she had pointed out the studio to me merely in order to make me repeat that I had in truth given up painting. By now we had arrived at the front door. My mother preceded me into the hall, saying in an authoritative tone of voice: “Now go and wash your hands, because lunch will be ready at once.”
    She opened a small door which led into a passage to the kitchen. I went by another door to the cloakroom. Surrounded by the four blue walls of the bathroom, I automatically looked at myself in the mirror above the wash basin while my hands twisted and turned in the soapy lather, under the jet of warm water. Just at that moment the door behind me opened and I saw in the mirror the head, with its short, badly cut hair, of the maid who had greeted me on my arrival a short time before.
    Looking at her reflection and without turning, I asked: “What’s your name?”
    “Rita.”
    “I’ve never seen you before.”
    “I’ve only been here a week.”
    I bent down and vigorously soaped my face, although there was no need to