“It’s true,” Arianna would say, “there’s always such a sense of security when you have a villa. Do you think you’ll be able to buy me one sooner or later? I really need a villa.” Then she would sigh, stretching out in the sun.

At first she brought her architecture books with her, but she usually preferred to play a little solitaire, lying there motionless, cultivating her own laziness. Ever since I’d started reading Swann’s Way aloud, the architecture books had vanished from her beach bag, to be replaced by a pillow she put under her head to be more comfortable while she listened to me.

It was nice to read in the sun. Around noon, wearing only my pants, I’d drive to the nearest village and buy sandwiches and beer. By the time I got back, she’d be peering into the villa through the windows or she’d already be in the water if the excessive heat had helped her overcome her fear of swimming by herself. She was terrified of seeing her shadow follow her on the seabed and usually swam on her back. We’d leave around three in the afternoon. At some of the villas we felt so good, we’d leave a note of gratitude on the door.

Back in town, I’d go to the newspaper and stay there until dinnertime, then go wait for Arianna at the top of the Spanish Steps, surrounded by taxi drivers playing baccarat on the hoods of their cars, flower vendors, and tourists. She was usually late and I’d kill time by reading the book I had in my pocket, but at the end of each page I’d look up to see if she was coming. And there she’d be, walking lazily through the crowd, her nose wrinkled in disgust at the exhaust from the cars and her arms crossed to support a never-opened architecture book. She’d look around, searching for me, then, seeing me, she’d slow down even more and, holding back a smug smile, stop at a store window, or walk twice around a lamppost, or turn to look insistently at some tourist dressed in a ridiculous manner. At last she’d reach me and give me a distracted kiss. “Well,” she’d say, “don’t go thinking I love you.”