Free The Girl on the Via Flaminia by Hayes Alfred Page B

said. “There are other girls in the city.”
    The clock ticked, matrimonially.
    â€œThousands of them,” Robert said. “Aren’t you cold in that raincoat?”
    â€œI’m accustomed to it.”
    He had bought a bottle of vermouth in the wineshop in the neighborhood. He opened the vermouth, at the table, while she lay there with the newspaper spread out on the bed, and the clock ticked. “Is the valise in the closet yours?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhy don’t you unpack it?”
    She did not answer. He poured the vermouth, liking the color of the wine, into a glass. “What did you do with the stuff I left here this morning?”
    â€œYour gifts?”
    â€œThey weren’t gifts. They were just things I left for you.”
    â€œI gave them to Adele.”
    â€œOh.” He drank the vermouth. “You were sleeping when I woke up. You were all cuddled up. You looked cute.”
    â€œCute?”
    â€œCarina,” Robert said. “We say cute.”
    â€œCute,” the girl said, pronouncing it. “What words they use for endearments. Babbee, darling, cute. What a language for love. Everything is said with the teeth. The, the—” she said, showing him how the tongue had to click against her teeth in order to say it.
    â€œThe,” Robert said, repeating it. “It doesn’t sound hard to me.”
    â€œItalian is soft,” she said, “and musical. And the language says exactly what it means. The,” she said again, contemptuously. “What is it? Masculine? Feminine?”
    â€œIt’s neuter,” Robert said.
    â€œThe,” she said. “In Italian nothing is neuter. The article agrees with the noun. Masculine or feminine.”
    â€œThat’s fine,” Robert said. “I like that. I don’t think things should be neuter either.”
    â€œI mean the language,” she said.
    â€œI don’t,” he said. “I mean everything.”
    He came across the room, and sat down beside her, and folded the newspaper she had been reading. “I’m glad you didn’t go away,” he said. “I’m glad you were here when I came tonight.” She did not answer. “I was,” he hesitated over the word a little, “pretty happy last night.”
    â€œGrazie,” the girl said. “I’m glad you were pleased.”
    â€œWeren’t you?”
    She shrugged.
    â€œNon importa,” she said. She looked away. “Why did you light the match?”
    â€œLast night?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œTo look at you.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause you’re beautiful.”
    â€œI don’t like it,” she said. “I’m not an animal in a stable you come to look at in the night. To admire because you own it. To see if it’s comfortable.”
    â€œI didn’t mean it like that.”
    She picked at the edge of the pillow. “Antonio asked me today what you do in America.”
    â€œWhat did you say?”
    â€œThat you were studying to be a lawyer.”
    â€œWho, me? I’m no lawyer. I’m not even an engineer. I used to work for a newspaper.”
    â€œA journalist?” she said, hopefully.
    â€œNo,” Robert said. “Not even a journalist. I used to sell ads. Advertisements. Like these.” He indicated the advertisements in the newspaper she had been reading. “That isn’t much to boast of to Antonio, is it?” He smiled at her. “What are you thinking?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œWould you have liked me to be an officer and a lawyer?”
    â€œNon importa,” the girl said.
    â€œYou always say that.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNon importa.”
    She shrugged again. “But nothing is,” she said. “You are not a lawyer, I am not a prima ballerina.”
    â€œNo,” Robert said, “we’re only like the two things in your language: masculine and feminine. Do