One of the first evenings in June, Renzo informed me that in two days’ time I could start work. The following morning I made an inventory of my clothes and realized I didn’t have anything suitable for the occasion, so I decided to invest the money I still had left in a new suit. In a surrender—nobody’s sure why—the loser is always more elegant than the victor, to obtain better conditions, maybe, or maybe when you have nothing left you realize that appearances are at least something, so I went on a tour of the downtown clothing stores. I found a white suit like Graziano’s. True, it wasn’t the same linen—in fact, it might not have even been linen—but it produced the right effect. I put it on, then and there, and went to Signor Sandro’s to phone Arianna. “There’s news, I have to talk to you,” I said, explaining where she could reach me.

“Talk now,” she said. “You surely don’t think I can hold out until I see you.”

“Try to survive,” I said, “it’s worth it.”

She arrived no more than twenty minutes late, walking along the sun-drenched sidewalk. Her heels penetrated my heart. She was wearing a dress with white and blue stripes and was the freshest thing I’d ever seen.

“Wow! Get a load of you!” she said loudly, looking at me. “So, what’s going on?”

“What are you drinking?” was all I said.

She wanted a granata, she was crazy about granatas, so I ordered two of these specialties of Signor Sandro’s, crushed ice with rum and exotic fruit juices served, depending on the quantity of sugar, in a coconut or a bamboo bottle. “One Perverse Virgin granata and one Bamboo,” I said to Signor Sandro and Arianna giggled.

“A very suggestive combination,” she said. She had never thought about that combination before, and I too giggled like an idiot as Signor Sandro began the ritual preparation. Arianna, who was always fascinated by ritual, watched him with close attention. When he noticed, his moves grew even lighter and more elegant. Then he placed the results of his magic in front of us and stood waiting for the verdict. Arianna bent over her straw and sucked two or three times, then raised her big, half-closed eyes and smiled. Signor Sandro returned her smile and bowed his head. They had understood each other.

“Now, that’s a bartender!” she said loudly as, freezing cold and a little drunk, we walked back out onto the street. “I’m crazy about him!”

“Of course,” I said. “Aren’t you crazy about all old men?”

“No beating about the bush, what do you want to tell me?”