Conjugal Love by Alberto Moravia Read Free Book Online Page B

about here when they go to the fair on Sunday . . . and those flowers are really marvellous. . . . Let's look at you.' As I said this I tried to make her turn slowly round, so as better to admire the barber's achievement.
    But, to my surprise, my wife's face was clouded by an ill-humour that I could not account for. Her big lower lip was trembling - always a sign of anger with her. Finally, with a movement of intense disgust, she pushed me away, saying: 'Please don't make jokes.. . . I'm not at all in the mood for joking.'
    I did not understand, and I went on: 'Come on, you don't need to be ashamed. I assure you, Antonio's done an excellent job. . . you look splendid.. . .Don't worry, you'll cut a good figure at the fair next Sunday - and if you go to the dance, you'll certainly have several proposals of marriage!'
    As can be seen, I imagined that her ill-humour was due to what Antonio had done: I knew her to be extremely vain and it would not have been the first time that an unskilful hairdresser had aroused her anger. But she thrust me away again, this time with a look of resentment, and repeated: 'I've already asked you not to make jokes.'
    It suddenly dawned upon me that her displeasure was caused by something other than her coiffure. 'But why?' I asked. 'What has happened?'
    She had walked over to the window and was looking out, her two hands on the sill.
    Suddenly she turned. 'What has happened is that tomorrow you must kindly do me the favour of changing your barber. I don't want that Antonio here any more.'
    I was astonished.' But why? He's not a town barber, I know that of course . . . but he does all right for me. . . . You don't have to make use of him again.'
    'Oh, Silvio,' she burst forth in anger, 'why won't you understand me? It's not a question of whether he's good at his job - what does that matter?'
    'But what's it all about, then?'
    'He was disrespectful to me . . . and I don't want to see him any more - ever again.'
    'He was disrespectful to you? What d'you mean?'
    There must have been in my expression and the tone of my voice still something of the thoughtless indifference that possessed me every morning at that time, for she added scornfully: 'But what does it matter to you if Antonio is disrespectful to me? Of course, it means nothing to you.'
    I was afraid I had offended her; going up to her, I said, seriously: 'Forgive me . . . perhaps I hadn't quite understood. But do please tell me in what way he was lacking in respect.'
    'I tell you, he was disrespectful,' she cried with sudden rage, turning towards me a second time, with nostrils quivering and an expression of hardness in her eyes; 'that's quite enough. . .. He's a horrible man ... send him away, get someone else. ... I don't want him about the place any more.'
    'I don't understand,' I said; 'he's a man who's usually most respectful - serious, in fact. ... A family man. . . .'
    'Yes,' she repeated, with a sarcastic shrug of the shoulders, 'a family man.'
    'But now will you please tell me what he did to you?'
    We went on disputing like this for a while, I insisting on knowing in what way Antonio had shown lack of respect, and she refusing to provide any explanation but merely repeating her accusation. In the end, after a great deal of furious wrangling, I thought I understood what had happened. In order to dress her hair, it had been necessary for Antonio to stand very close to the armchair in which she was sitting. It had appeared to her that more than once he had tried to brush against her shoulder and her arm with his body. I say it appeared to her; for she herself admitted that the barber had continued his work imperturbably, remaining all the time silent and respectful. But these contacts, she swore, were not fortuitous; she had observed that they had an intention, a purpose behind them. She was sure that-Antonio had intended, by means of these contacts, to establish a relationship with her, to make her an improper proposal.
    'But are you quite