I was witness to scenes of love from time to time, occasional moments of togetherness in Mahalakshmi, the drawing room lit with a fire, the books glowing on the shelves. It was enough, then, to hear my mother in the kitchen preparing a meagre supper of soup and bread. Papi emerging from his studio after a day’s work, entering the house with a volume of Ungaretti or Zanzotto. I think poetry was the only luxury my father allowed himself, the only love my parents shared. How many times he tried to get me to learn Italian by reading poetry – ‘A ogni nuovo clima che incontro mi trovo languente … Godere un solo minuto di vita iniziale cerco un paese innocente.’

But I had no ear for languages, no love for them either. I was more interested in the music Papi played after dinner. While Ma and I cleared the table, he would pick something from his record collection, depending on his mood – Louis Armstrong or Paolo Conte or Sarah Vaughan. Whatever he chose, whatever their most recent argument, Ma would dance with him.

It was their way of salvaging the day, of forgiving. And it was marvellous to watch. My father in his perfectly tailored Italian shirts and trousers, always so formal for every occasion. My mother in a sari or a floor-length dress and cardigan. The two of them sliding across the wooden floors of Mahalakshmi like two serpents in their battle dance. It was the most civilised thing about my childhood, and though I remember exactly when they stopped dancing, it was only much later that I figured out why.

4

A city such as this shouldn’t have the right to exist. It is a dream on water. A seaweed-stinking dream.

I’ve been here three weeks, staying in an apartment off the Campo San Giacomo dell’Orio. A light-filled place with large windows that look out onto small canals where singing gondolieri steer their sleek black vessels through labyrinths of water. At first I used to stand by the windows, listening to strains of ‘O sole mio’, ‘Volare’, ‘Santa Lucia’ – music I didn’t know I knew, but which must have folded into the grey of my cerebral cortex as a child. After days of listening to the same songs over and over, I close the windows because they are ruining the dream.

The apartment is mostly white except for two purple velvet armchairs, a Turkish rug that covers the entire floor, and a wall of books. Every evening, after my long day of walking, I slide a title off the shelf, purely on whimsy, hoping the pages will bring some kind of revelation.

The woman, Ilaria, who owns this apartment, is a photographer. Her black-and-white photographs of semi-nude men and women are framed in discreet corners. I found Ilaria on the internet. She had been looking for someone to sublet the place while away on sabbatical in Marrakesh.

India is a mother country!! Ilaria had written in her email. Every time I go there I remember one of my past lives. It’s the only place where I feel I’m coming home. Sorry not to be able to meet you, but my friend Roberto will bring you the keys and explain everything to you. It’s easy!