He was young, dynamic, northern, and penniless. He’d read the script and liked it a lot. There was someone else with him in the office, a guy in jeans and sweater, a director. I’d seen some of his movies, Westerns that weren’t as bad as you might have thought, given the titles, and we spoke affably. He liked the project, he said, even though the screenplay would have to be changed in ways that wouldn’t affect the basic story. A lot depended on the price, the producer said rather warily. I said that wouldn’t be a problem, they seemed relieved, and the tone became affable again. They even had the right actor available, a young pop singer who was making a name for himself in movies. True, he was a little young, but one of the director’s ideas was to reduce the age of the main character by about ten years. “I’d make him one of those long-haired young guys from a good family,” he said, “a young pacifist. The fact that he kills his father becomes much more emblematic.”

“Maybe he should play the flute on Piazza Navona,” I said. The director half closed his eyes, weighing up the idea. He thought it was a good one.

We talked some more, ever more affably as the bottle of whisky on the table gradually emptied. When it was finished, I pushed it across the table and told them where they could stick it and why. They were very upset by that, and even tried to grab hold of me, but I brandished the bottle and managed to get the hell out of there unscathed. I still had the bottle in my hand when I hit the street, so I headed to the nearest bar. They refused to fill it with hot water and I argued with them at length, maintaining that the bottle was glass, not plastic, and so must still have a modicum of value on the stock exchange. But they didn’t understand about high finance, so I left. The first thing I saw on the street was a policeman getting out of a patrol car. I threw myself at the car door just as he was sticking his head out. I learned later that he lost two teeth.

As for me, I woke up in an iron bed as a woman’s face with heavy, patient features surmounted by a white cap leaned in a few centimeters from mine. Immediately, I felt a needle piercing my arm. The syringe was full of red liquid. I saw the straps at the sides of the bed. I asked if they’d used them.

“Only the first night,” the nurse said.

“How long have I been here?”

“Four days.”