40
..,LBERTO MORAVIA
Like
that statue, the Mexican woman had short, thick legs, so
short and thick, indeed, that they made you think her feet were
attached to her knees. On top of these legs her torso, dispro–
portionately long, stood
bolt
upright in a manner that seemed
unnatural. Her buttocks were flat, her belly large and pro–
tuberant, with the navel sunk deeply in the flesh. Her breasts
were oblong, like two gourds with their ends cut off, and they
stood out stiff and firm, one pointing this way and one that. At
the top of her long neck, round which coiled a thin black tress
of hair, her face was motionless, without expression; and her
feet rested with their entire soles flat on the floor, like those of
her native land's divinities. She passed in front of the window,
and the neon lights threw a reflection across her face and her
breast,
aI
red and purple reflection exactly like a piece of bar–
baric tattooing. From her hand hung a towel, and she held it
out to
him,
nodding in the direction of the screen, as if inviting
him to wash. But Sergio refused the towel and said: "No, no,
not love . . . Sing, sing"; and he opened his mouth and placed
his
hand on his chest.
She understood at once and smiled with professional satis–
faction. She threw the towel on the bed, bent down towards
Sergio and, taking his chin in the palm of her hand, as one does
with a child, said something to
him
in a lively, caressing voice,
in a tone of flattering commendation; then she gave
him
a little
slap on the cheek. Sergio smiled gratefully at her. She sat down
on the bed at a little distance from him, and took hold of his
hand as it rested on the coverlet. Her own hand was large,
rough and cool. She clasped his hand, crossed her short legs,
gazed for a moment straight in front of her with black, shining
eyes
and then, swelling out her chest as though with a sudden
inspiration, began to sing.
