“No reason. Just that . . . I mean . . .” I looked for a neutral tone. “It will destroy his life.”

“Well, that’s just too bad isn’t it?”

“Do you want to destroy him?”

“No. I don’t actually care what happens to him, to be honest. But I have a right to tell my own bloody story! Don’t I?”

“Of course. But he will be destroyed. As long as you realize that. He’ll be finished as a journalist, a filmmaker. His personal life will be wrecked. He’ll—” I could hear my voice rising. I appeared to have shifted from the role of impartial magistrate, now that I’d accepted her version of events, into something more like Marco’s advocate. I was surprised at this, though the surprise didn’t change anything. I’d drunk enough to feel the gap between my acting self and my observing self. “His life will be over, for all intents and purposes. I’m not saying that’s necessarily unfair. Maybe it’s exactly what he deserves. I’m just . . . pointing it out. I mean, since you say you don’t actively want to destroy him . . .”

The expression on Julia’s face seemed to suggest she hadn’t considered this aspect of the situation until now. I continued, cautiously encouraged.

“He’s very open to self-criticism, you know. He told me he regretted a lot of his own past behavior with women. He felt bad that he hadn’t been more considerate, empathetic. We had one conversation where he spoke very frankly about growing older and not being so governed by his libido. He said he was a lot happier. He admitted he used to feel compelled to make a conquest of every woman he encountered, but now that’s gone, and he says it’s actually liberating.”

I repeated, as accurately I could, Marco’s spiel about the autumnal pleasures of life that he’d begun to appreciate: puttering off to the gym or bakery, savoring the aromas of the local restaurants and vegetation. She listened, clutching her glass of wine without lifting it.

“I’m telling you this in case you think he’s still a danger to other women. I mean, if that’s part of the reason why you feel it’s important to publish your—”

“It has nothing to do with it,” Julia burst out. “I don’t give a damn what he does to other women. He can rape his way across the entire fucking planet as far as I’m concerned. There’s one reason and one reason alone why I intend to tell my story, which is that he raped me. It happened. And I’m not going to be made to shut up about it.”