‘Hello Daniel,’ I say, and reach for his hand. He flips my hand over and chivalrously plants a kiss on it. ‘How do you do?’ he says, with flourish.

The parents gleam. It’s obviously a thing he does, but the effect on people is always different.

I start crying. Silly crying, deluge crying. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I say. They look at me, perplexed. I have momentarily broken the sanctity of their vacation. I hurry back to my table, pick up the bill that has been brought with the food, walk into the bar and pay at the counter. ‘All okay?’ the waiter asks. ‘Yes, yes,’ I stammer, ‘I’m not feeling so good.’

Papi and I have philosophical arguments about happiness and suffering. He believes that both exist in equal measures of one another, refuses to be brought into any conversation that involves the word ‘decency’. ‘Morality is a false qualifier,’ he tells me, ‘it cannot have universal applications.’ His cough has become less severe and the doctor has suggested taking short walks on days that aren’t damp. He grants himself a cigarette a day. ‘You would not have me living with no pleasures at all, Grazia?’

We stop at the café around the corner for aperitivos in the evening or coffee in the morning. Bangladeshi men shove roses in Papi’s face and look at me in a manner that is both leering and sweet. ‘She’s my daughter,’ Papi spits. ‘Idiots, get away from here.’

He looks shrunken, his hands especially. He seemed so voluminous to me as a child, but now I see he has always been delicate in some ways. The eyelashes, the ears, the bony arch of his elbows. We walk arm in arm and I wonder what people looking at us might think. Whether we are from a far-off place? Whether we share the same blood? I catch sight of my reflection, at the lines around my mouth, which seem to have deepened over the last few months. I look exactly as I feel – a woman who is slipping out of the prime of her life.

‘What will you do?’ Papi asks.

That question again.

There are parts of the city I am getting to know. I understand the importance of narrow passages. I catch glimpses of secret gardens. One afternoon, in my old neighbourhood of San Giacomo dell’Orio, I notice Roberto, the mathematician from Ca’ Foscari, heading for the bridge that goes towards the train station. ‘Roberto,’ I yell. ‘Man with the keys!’

I feel a strange sense of relief that he recognises me. It is important somehow to be known by someone other than my father here. It makes me feel less alone. ‘Come,’ he says, ‘let’s sit somewhere.’