I was lying in bed one morning with this one Italian girl, Luciana, in an apartment in Rome. I lit cigarettes for the both of us. I asked her about this pink chemise she wouldn’t remove, even when during the night before.
“I’m in bad shape. I’m in lousy shape,” was her excuse.
I started tracing her back with my finger and she got all tense as hell when I got to this one part. It was a scar, she finally told me. She said she had been wounded in a goddam air raid.
“Dove?” I asked.
“Napoli.”
“Germans?”
“Americani.”
My heart cracked. Then, all of a sudden, I got this idea.
“Look,” I said. “Here’s my idea. How would you like to get the hell out of here? I know this guy down in the mess hall that we can borrow his plane for a couple of weeks. He owes me ten bucks. What we could do is, tomorrow morning we could fly down to Malta and Palermo, and all around there, see. It’s beautiful as down there. It really is.”
I was getting excited as hell, and I sort of reached her and took her hand. What a goddam fool I was.
“No kidding,” I said. We could live somewhere with a brook and all and, later on, we could get married or something. Honest to God, we could have a terrific time! Wuddya say? C’mon! Wuddya say? Will you do it with me? Please!”
“Tu sei pazzo,” she told me with a laugh.
“Why am I crazy?” I asked her.
“You can’t just do something like that,” she said. She sounded sore as hell.
“Why not? Why the hell not?”
“Perché non possiamo sposarsi.”
“Why can’t you get married?”
“Because we can’t, that’s all. In the first place, I am not a virgin. No one wants a girl who is not a virgin. And did you ever stop to think what you’d do if you didn’t get a job when your money ran out? We’d starve to death. The whole thing’s so fantastic, it... it isn't even— perche sei pazzo!”
“Why am I crazy? It isn’t fantastic. I’d get a job. Don’t worry about that. You don’t have to worry about that. What’s the matter? Don’t you want to go with me? Say so, if you don’t.”
“It isn’t that. It isn’t that at all.”
“Why am I crazy?” I asked her again.
“Perché vuoi sposarmi.”
I wrinkled my forehead with quizzical amusement. “You won’t marry me because I’m crazy, and you say I’m crazy because I want to marry you? Is that right?”
“Si.”
I was beginning to hate her, in a way. “Why can’tcha? Why not? Tu sei pazz!!!”
“Stop screaming at me, please,” she said. Which was crap, because I wasn’t even screaming at her.
“C’mon, let’s get outa here,” I said. We both hated each other’s guts by that time. You could see there wasn’t any sense trying to have an intelligent conversation. I was sorry as hell I’d started it. I was getting depressed as hell again. I asked her to write her name and address down on a piece of paper.
“Why?” she demanded as we were walking down the steps. She got indignant as hell. “So you can tear it up into little pieces as soon as I leave?”
“Who’s going to tear it up? What the hell are you talking about?”
“You will. You’ll tear it up into little pieces the minute I’m gone and go walking away like a big shot because a beautiful girl like me let you sleep with her and did not ask you for money.” She was sort of crying, and all of a sudden I did feel sort of sorry I’d said it. She scribbled her name and address on a piece of paper anyway and thrust it at me. “Here,” she said, huffy as hell. “Don’t forget to tear it into tiny pieces as soon as I am gone.”
The minute she was gone, I went and tore up that slip of paper up and walked in the other direction, feeling very much like a big shot because a beautiful young girl like old Luciana had slept with me and did not ask for money. I shouldn’t’ve, but I was pretty goddam fed up by that time.
If you want to know the truth, I don’t even know why I started all that stuff with her. I mean about going away somewhere, to Malta and Palermo and all. The terrible part, though, is that I meant it when I asked her. That’s the terrible part. I swear to God I’m a madman.