“Of course I’m moving there. I’ll take care of a couple of things, get rid of a few items, and I’ll move. I’ve already put down the deposit.”

“Six hundred and fifty euros a month! Right in the center of town. In Rome you couldn’t rent a garage for that money. Not bad, is it?”

“We’re in Aosta, which isn’t exactly Rome.”

She heaves a sigh of annoyance. “When are you going to learn to live where you live?”

“Why, what am I doing wrong?”

“You’re pretending. You have to decide whether to jump into the fray or stay out of it. You can’t always play it both ways.”

What a pain in the ass.

“And don’t say, ‘What a pain in the ass!’”

“I didn’t say it, Marì . . .”

“True, but you thought it. You know I can read your mind.”

I look at her. I think I’m going to have to start wearing glasses for my farsightedness, because Marina’s features, just like the pages of the book, are getting blurry. And I’m not crying.

“It’s just because your eyesight is getting worse . . . a perfectly normal thing as you get older . . .”

“But you’ve always worn eyeglasses.”

“Stop right there! I’m nearsighted. Plus, I had contact lenses. With glasses on I look like a toad.”

“I like the way you look with glasses.”

“You used to. Italian has some rules, at least try to respect the tenses.”

“I like the way you look with glasses,” I insist. “Don’t you wear them anymore?”

Marina falls back on her pillow and looks up at the ceiling. “I don’t need them. They can’t do me any good. Rocco . . .” When she calls me by my name and uses that exact tone of voice, that note, that hue, I always get a hollow in the pit of my stomach.

“What?”

“I’m not coming to the new place.”

There’s something stuck in my throat, something I can’t swallow. And yet I haven’t eaten dinner. “What do you mean, you’re not coming?”

“I’m not coming. I’m not coming anymore. Maybe when you come back to Rome, if you ever do, I’ll see you there. But there’s nothing left for me to do here.”

“Nothing left for you to do here? You need to stay with me.”

She runs a hand over her forehead. She’s white as the snow, and light as the pollen. “I’m tired, Rocco. Do you believe me when I say that I just can’t keep it up anymore?” She turns her head. The muscles strain in her neck. She narrows her eyes. “And you can’t keep it up anymore, either, my love.”

I clench my jaw. Twice, three times. “What do you mean, I can’t take it anymore? I can take it easily . . . I can.”