It was wider than the others, and you could see for kilometers along the two blue arms of land that extended into the sea. Low undergrowth separated the beach from the road, and on a rocky promontory a dark Saracen fortress rose in the sun. I stopped the car and stripped off my clothes, then walked barefoot into the undergrowth until I found a gap leading to the beach. The sand was scorching hot, but the water was cool and clean. I dove in and swam until I was out of breath. Then I turned on my back and played dead, listening to the swish of the water around my ears. I felt good, I couldn’t remember ever feeling that good. Then I turned back to the shore, swimming calmly in the direction of the mountains.

I dried myself in the sun, then got back in my car and set off again. I drove barefoot, and as the water dried it left a layer of salt on my skin. When I felt hungry I stopped to have some fish at a roadside trattoria. Resuming my journey, I started asking for information in all the built-up areas I passed through. Finally, a young boy said he knew the villa I was looking for and offered to show me the way for a thousand lire.

The villa had been built around a Saracen tower and was low and very white, shaded by maritime pines and oleander bushes. In front of the gate there were some sports cars and some official-looking cars. I left the old Alfa Romeo there, although it was neither a sports car nor an official car, and pulled on a small chain that stuck out of the wall next to the gate. A bell rang in the distance, followed by the barking of dogs.

After five minutes a butler in a white jacket appeared. “There’s nobody home,” he said. “They’re all out boating. The master’s in his studio but can’t be disturbed.”

“Giacomo, who is it?” a voice cried from the tower.

“It’s for the signorina!” Giacomo yelled back, and then the voice shouted that I should make myself at home.

The butler led me along a concrete path to a terrace overlooking the sea. It was full of white chairs adorned with arabesques and brightly colored cushions. “Would you like a tall drink?” the servant said. I was still drinking it when a quarter of an hour later the host appeared. I knew him, it was the second time I’d seen him. His name was Arlorio and his paintings—seascapes, sailboats, freight cars, harlequins—filled the drawing rooms of half of Rome. He was as tall as I remembered him, lean, with a semi-halo of gray hair around his sinewy neck. He looked like Picasso, only taller and harder, and without Picasso’s luminous smile. “They’re all on the boat,” he said. “You’ll have to wait for them.”