“Congratulations,” the bearded giant said, joining us with his glass. “Very wise.” He raised his glass to me. He was wearing a military greatcoat, with a scarf that went all the way down to his feet, and a streaming umbrella hanging from his arm, and was considering the world from the sublime heights of a massive hangover. He had a ravaged smile, the smile of a veteran. Renzo said he was the best director in television, when he was sober, but that was a condition he probably hadn’t been in for some time now. Giggling, the man apologized, in reply to Renzo’s remark, and went to get a refill.

“Why don’t we get together this evening?” Renzo said. He also said that he and his wife had moved and made me repeat their new address twice to make sure I wouldn’t forget it. But there was no danger of that. Even though we were a generation apart, I enjoyed his company, he was a good chess player as well as a highly regarded historian, and his wife, Viola, was an excellent cook. I couldn’t ask for anything better to conclude such an unlucky day.

When I was alone again, I drew up a plan that would be proof against bad luck. First of all, I’d go to the newspaper office to wangle some money, then I’d catch a movie, then I’d proceed to the Diaconos’—having first gone to pick up my old Alfa Romeo. It was such a simple, such a reassuring plan that the combination of it and the wine gave me an immediate feeling of euphoria. I walked out and smelled the rain, which was coming to an end. Big, isolated drops were falling on the sidewalk, and there were large patches of blue in the sky. I set off past the damp but dazzling buildings of the Corso, and ten minutes later walked into the offices of the Corriere dello Sport, humming “Où es-tu, mon amour?” in the Django Reinhardt version.