Free The Conformist by Alberto Moravia Page B

swept down on a pile of dead leaves, lifting great numbers of them high, high among the stripped branches of the plane trees. He amused himself by watching the leaves as they whirled through the air against the background of dark sky, like innumerable yellow hands with their fingers spread apart; and then, looking down, he saw through all those hands of gold twirling in the wind, the long, black, shining shape of the automobile, parked against the curb. His heart began to beat more swiftly, he would not have known how to say why; however, faithful to his plan, he did not hurry his steps, but walked forward until he was level with the car. He passed its window slowly, and right away, as if at a signal, the car door opened and Lino, without his cap on, stuck his head out, saying, “Marcello, do you want to get in?”
    He couldn’t help marveling at this very serious invitation after the vows of their first encounter. So Lino does know himself well, he thought, and it was even amusing to see him do something he had foreseen, despite all his determination to resist. Marcello walked on as if he hadn’t heard and then realized, with obscure satisfaction, that the car was moving and following him. The wide sidewalk was deserted as far as the eye could see between the regularly spaced factories full of windows and the great, slantingtrunks of the plane trees. The car was following him at his own pace, with a low rumble that almost caressed the ear; after about twenty meters, it passed him and stopped some distance ahead; then the car door opened again. He passed it without turning and heard once more the strained and urgent voice, pleading, “Marcello, get in … I beg you … forget what I told you the other day … Marcello, do you hear me?”
    Marcello couldn’t help telling himself that that voice was a little disgusting; why did Lino have to whine that way? It was lucky that no one else was going down the avenue, otherwise he would have felt ashamed. All the same, he didn’t want to discourage the man completely, so this time as he passed the car, he turned round halfway to look behind him, as if to invite Lino to persevere. He realized he was launching an almost flattering, flirtatious glance in his direction, and all of a sudden he felt the same unmistakeable sensation of not unpleasant humiliation, of not unnatural pretence, that he had felt two days ago for a moment when his companions were tying the skirt around his waist. Almost as if, at heart, it wouldn’t displease him — on the contrary, maybe he was made for it by nature — to act the part of a disdainful, flirtatious woman. Meanwhile the car had come up behind him again. Marcello queried himself as to whether it was yet time to surrender and decided, after reflection, that the moment had not yet come. The car passed him without stopping, only slowing down. He heard the man’s voice calling to him: “Marcello.…” and then, right afterwards, the sudden roar of the car taking off. Now he worried that Lino had lost patience and left; he was invaded by a great fear of showing himself the next day at school with empty hands; and he started to run, shouting, “Lino! Lino, stop, Lino!”
    But the wind carried his words away, scattering them through the air with the dead leaves in an anguished and resonant tumult. The car dwindled in the distance; evidently Lino had not heard him and was going away; and he wouldn’t have the pistol; and Turchi would tease him one more time. Then he breathed again and began to walk at an almost normal pace, reassured: the car had pulled ahead, not to escape him, but to await him at a crossstreet; in fact, now it was parked there, blocking the whole width of the sidewalk.
    He was assailed by anger with Lino for having provoked that humiliating thumping of his heart; and in that same heart he decided, with a sudden impulse of cruelty, to make him pay for it with calculated harshness. Meanwhile, without hurrying, he had