“We can,” he said, “but when your angel appears, what will you do, will you offer him ground beef and onions?”

“And a lettuce leaf,” I said. “What else would you suggest?”

“A movie,” he said. “Let’s make a movie, what do you say? The story of someone who, when the angel asks him what he wants to do with his life, goes home and kills his father.” He thought this over for a moment. “Or else let’s make a nice Western,” he said. “Which would go down better right now?”

“A Western,” I said. “I already have a title, The Last of the Mohicans, what do you think?”

“God, I can never talk seriously to this old faggot,” he said. “Can’t you be a little bit serious for once?”

“Who’s putting up the money?”

“Now you’re just being negative,” he said, sitting down on the Spanish Steps. “Sandie, who do you think? As soon as I can provide her the necessary guarantees. Couldn’t lend me a dildo, could you?”

There were azaleas on the steps, great vases of azaleas everywhere, in addition to the painters, the hippies, the tourists, the necklace vendors. A limpid Roman evening was settling over the roofs, and the wind wafted the scent of the flowers to us and ruffled our shirts. Graziano fell silent, wilting, as he watched the traffic circling the fountain. The wind stirred his beard, and his cigar, which he was gripping weakly between his teeth, turned red at the tip.

The city was caressing us. Gradually, it became less difficult to think about Arianna. Basically, nothing irreparable had happened. Nothing irreparable ever happened in this city—sad things, maybe, but not irreparable ones. And anyway, if I was going to leave town, I wanted to see her. At this hour, she must be in Eva’s store, playing solitaire.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said. “I know some people nearby who could offer us a drink.”

“Leftovers,” he said, “nothing but leftovers.”

Graziano pulled himself to his feet and followed me up the steps until we got to Trinità dei Monti, then we took the street that went downhill, leading to Eva’s store. We climbed the front steps, holding on to the railing, then pushed the glass door. A bell rang as it opened. The humorist was there reading something aloud, along with the fashion model, Livio Stresa, and Paolo, that journalist with the special way with women, sitting next to Arianna. I was greeted as if it were the most natural thing in the world for me to be joining them.