Traitors to All Read Online Free PDF

impression, or at any rate he couldn’t find it, where on earth had his sister Lorenza put it, but he had to carry on all the same, he had set out along this road and couldn’t stop now.
    ‘Have you had any diseases or infections?’
    Calmly throwing the end of the Parisienne on the floor and looking up at the ceiling, she told him the name of the disease she had had. ‘Can’t hide anything from you doctors.’
    He moved the lamp on the little table even closer, but it didn’t give much light. ‘Have you ever had an abortion?’
    ‘Yes, three.’
    ‘Abortions or miscarriages?’ He thought the answer was obvious.
    ‘Well,’ she said sadly, slightly bitterly, ‘only women who want children have miscarriages, it’s those who don’t want them who need dynamiting.’
    He raised his head and took off his gloves. ‘The procedure will only take a few minutes, but after it you’ll have to lie here on the couch for at least two hours.’
    ‘I’ll have a nap,’ she said. ‘Mind if I smoke?’
    ‘Go ahead.’
    ‘I like smoking lying down. Can you get my cigarettes out of my handbag for me?’
    Of course he could. He opened the little black bag in front of her – it was full to the brim, like a make-upcase – and took out the yellow packet of Parisiennes and the lighter.
    ‘Take one yourself.’
    ‘Thank you.’ He lit a cigarette for her, then one for himself. He had learnt to be a good actor: you had to, otherwise you’d drown. He’d even be able to join the Piccolo Teatro, Strehler 1 would refine his talents, but he already had what it took to be an actor. He continued with his playacting: ‘When are you getting married?’ He said it almost gently: if the girl wanted to seduce him before the operation, let her, it was all part of the performance.
    ‘Don’t remind me: tomorrow morning.’ Lying there, her knees bent because the couch was too short for her, she smoked and blew the smoke towards the ceiling. Her black hair, not very long but thick, created a dark halo on the little white pillow: yes, she had a sour, slightly bony, slightly vulgar face, but she gave off intense waves of sensuality in the way she moved, spoke and behaved.
    ‘You’re getting married tomorrow morning?’ His tone was not so much incredulous as resigned.
    ‘Yes, unfortunately.’ Another little cloud of smoke drifted up to the ceiling. ‘Don’t you have anything to drink? I mean something strong, to forget.’
    ‘Maybe.’ He went back to the kitchen. He must have a bottle or two of whisky left over from the time of Michelangelo’s David, 2 and in fact there was one, one and a half, he took the half, and a glass, and looked at Mascaranti. Mascaranti was looking at the little bowl with the instruments in it.
    ‘The water has just started boiling,’ Mascaranti said.
    ‘Let it boil for ten minutes, then call me.’ He went back to the study and the girl was still smoking: even though the windows were open, all the smoke produced by this tobaccoaddict couldn’t pass quickly enough through the closed shutters. ‘I have whisky. Say when.’
    ‘That’s fine,’ she said, propping herself on one elbow and taking a good swig. ‘If only you knew how awful it is, a man can’t imagine it.’ She gave him back the glass.
    ‘What is?’
    ‘Getting married to a man who isn’t right for you.’
    It was true, a man couldn’t know that.
    ‘And that’s not the worst thing.’
    ‘What is?’
    ‘Having to leave the man you like.’ She gestured for a cigarette, and Duca gave her one and lit it for her and she continued, ‘Silvano and I have been making love for a week. We know these are the last days we’ve got, and we feel really bad.’
    This was nice, a romantic touch amid all the filth, if you could call it romantic. He gave her more to drink. Women are always the weak link in any chain. But then she said, ‘Don’t give me too much to drink, or I’ll start chattering and then I’ll be here for more than three