The Girl on the Via Flaminia Read Online Free PDF Page B

now.”
    â€œNo,” Nina said, “you’ll jump in the Tiber.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œSo they’ll fish out another fool.”
    â€œThere will be one less in the world.”
    â€œI ought to let you!”
    â€œIt’s not important either way,” the girl said.
    â€œExcept,” Nina said angrily, leaning toward her, “I went through all the trouble of getting you a nice one.”
    The girl’s face was averted. “You take him,” she said. “You like Americans.”
    â€œLike them?” Nina laughed. “Some I could spit on. You should see their officers as I’ve seen them . . . what animals! Screaming in the hotel corridors, and such jokes! To them it’s a wonderful joke to hang toilet paper from a chandelier!”
    â€œThey’re gay,” the girl said. “For them it’s a gay war.”
    â€œNo,” Nina said, “not really; they’re not really gay. Really they’re a gloomy people, the Americans . . .”
    â€œAnd your captain?”
    â€œThat’s something else.”
    â€œWill he marry you?”
    â€œThe man has a wife somewhere. Ohio . . . and she’s cold and ungrateful and extravagant . . .”
    â€œWhy doesn’t he divorce her?”
    â€œOh,” Nina said, “it’s wonderful how many cold wives the Americans have they do not divorce!”
    â€œChe brutta guerra,” the girl said.
    â€œSì. But what shall I do—cry my eyes out? Or jump in the Tiber? There’s enough corpses on the bottom now . . . and it’s better to eat and to go to Florence when one can . . .”
    â€œOr wait,” the girl said, “in a house for some Roberto . . .”
    â€œYes, even to wait in a house for some Roberto,” Nina said.
    â€œBut,” the girl said.
    â€œBut what?”
    â€œHe may not like me.” Nina looked at her, and smiled slightly. The light lay on the fine skin. Her hair shadowed her eyes.
    â€œMy dear,” she said, “would you like to bet?”
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    E ccolo!” Adele said, coming in through the doorway, carrying a tray. “The coffee . . .” The coffee steamed on the tray.
    Behind Adele appeared a tall thin old man, a newspaper tucked under his arm. His spectacles sat on his forehead. He looked into the room.
    â€œYou are still here?” Ugo Pulcini said to Nina. “I thought you’d already be high in the mountains.”
    â€œMy husband,” Adele said. “This is the Signora Lisa. She is taking Nina’s room.”
    â€œAh,” Ugo said, “with the American husband.” He came into the room. “In Milan once—before the war, it was all before the war—I knew an American girl. A schoolteacher. At the Hotel Tuscania . . .”
    â€œSo!” Adele said, looking at her husband.
    He smiled, deprecatingly. “An old transgression, my dear . . . 1920! She was making a summer tour. I remember she ate little sandwiches, and in the hotel there was a bar with a special fountain for American schoolteachers . . . a bar with carbonated water and ice cream . . .”
    â€œDid she enjoy her tour, Ugo?” Nina asked.
    â€œIt was 1920 . . . a quarter of a century ago! Besides, I had a great curiosity about American women.”
    â€œDid you satisfy it?” Adele said.
    â€œTo an extent, my dear: to an extent.” He sighed. “You see how far back I have to go to find a pleasant memory?”
    â€œDrink your coffee, Don Giovanni,” Adele said.
    â€œNow, of course, the tours are different,” Ugo said, sitting down. He sighed again, thinking perhaps of the carbonated water. “There are no more schoolteachers who eat little sandwiches at the Hotel Tuscania . . . now there are only soldiers who scratch their names on the walls of the Colosseum. Yes, among the names of the martyrs, and the ghosts of the great gladiators, their names,