The worst part came when I found myself on the street with an empty evening in front of me. I couldn’t go home because Renzo would be looking for me and I still had to think of a valid excuse, so I made the rounds of the bars on Piazza del Popolo, looking for Graziano, but he seemed to have melted away. Then I thought of Claudia. I hadn’t heard from her since she’d left that note on my door. I’d have liked to see her, but I hesitated. Not that I thought I’d annoy her by showing up—too much time had passed since we’d had our affair—it was more that her life had gone in a direction where there was no room for me anymore. That kind of thing happened. In the end I bought a bunch of flowers and went to wait for her outside her building.

It was on a little square in the back streets of Trastevere and she arrived at dinnertime, carrying a plastic bag filled with provisions. She was wearing pants and a blue sweater. Her clogs, which she always wore in summer, made her swing her hips even more than usual, and her erect back emphasized the roundness of her breasts. I let her walk past me without seeing me, then followed her up the steps and grabbed hold of her bag. “Gazzara!” she said loudly. “Flowers!” She threw her arms around my neck and we stood there like that, hugging while the doorman looked on. She pulled away and looked me in the face, closely. Whatever she saw, she said nothing. She took the bag and the flowers and continued up the stairs. From the haste with which she did this, I realized she was really pleased to see me.

In the apartment—I walked in by myself while she went to pick up Biondella from the neighbor—I was struck by the usual smell of smoke, cooking, and eau de cologne I knew so well. I went to the window. The promise of a long, mild summer evening hung over the little square, where the waiters stood between the tables of the trattorias, waiting for the first customers to arrive.