I was drunk from morning to night. Just like the good old days, truth be told. The days drifted by and summer had turned to fall and fall was turning to winter. The only god-awful moment was waking. Throwing up in the morning is one of the most unpleasant aspects of a period of intense alcoholic activity, but apart from that I couldn’t complain. I kept going to the newspaper office, even when I could barely type because my hands were shaking so much. My fingers would get stuck between the keys and my nails were constantly broken. Most of the time I sat there in front of the typewriter while the disc turned and turned. When the girls got tired of having to do my work for me, they tipped off the head of the department. The pit bull came over all understanding at first, then, getting nowhere with that, conveyed the message that at the end of November I would have to go. But there is a kind of justice in the world, because two days before my time was up his expired. Not that he died, only that there was some kind of revolution at the paper, which I vaguely heard about, at the end of which the head of department was dismissed and his place taken by Rosario. I’d wound up safe and sound.

In the evening, I would go to Signor Sandro’s and once I’d gotten on top of the situation I would go outside and fight with the police. People in uniform had always bothered me and when I drank I felt an absolute necessity to tell them that. I picked on anyone in uniform, even streetcar drivers, but apart from police officers my favorites were hotel doormen.

I would get home exhausted. In the morning, if I could manage to stand on my feet, I’d take the movie script and do the rounds of the film companies. I wasn’t doing it only for Graziano but for me. I was still paying his funeral expenses, which had been astronomical. But nothing came of it. I rarely managed to speak with anyone more important than a secretary—I even ended up in bed with a couple of them, I think. Then one day I actually got to see a producer.