Giulia wasn’t looking for a husband. She never went to the cafés or nightclubs where people her age spent their time. Mamma made excuses for her ‘unsociable’ daughter. Giulia preferred the quiet of the biblioteca communale to the racket of the discotheque, and spent her lunch break there every day. She was a voracious reader, and loved the stillness of the big, book-lined rooms, disturbed only by the rustle of turning pages. There was something religious about the place, it seemed to her; a mystical, meditative atmosphere that she loved. When she was reading, Giulia never noticed time passing. As a child, sitting in the workshop at the women’s feet, she had devoured the swashbuckling adventures of Emilio Salgari. Later, she discovered poetry. She liked Caproni better than Ungaretti; and Moravia’s prose, and above all Pavese, permanently on her bedside table. She felt she could spend her whole life in his company. Sitting in the library, she would often forget to eat, and she would come back from her lunch break with an empty stomach. That’s how it was: Giulia devoured books like other people devoured cannoli.

When she returned that afternoon, it was to a strange silence in the main workshop. All eyes turned to her as she entered.

‘Mia Cara,’ said La Nonna, in an unfamiliar voice. ‘Your mamma has just called. It’s your father …’

Sarah

Montreal, Canada

The alarm sounded and the countdown began. Sarah’s life was relentless, from the moment she woke to the moment she went to bed. The instant she opened her eyes, her brain started to whirr like the processor in her computer.

She got up at five every morning. No time for more sleep, every second counted. Her day was a race against the second hand, calibrated down to the last millimetre, like the wads of graph paper she bought each year at the end of the summer holidays for the children’s Maths classes. Her carefree, spontaneous days were long gone: the days before the firm, before motherhood and responsibility. The days when a telephone call could change everything. Tonight, how about …? What if we …? Do you feel like going to …? Now, everything was planned, organized, anticipated. No room for making it up as you went along. You learned your role, and you played it over and over, day after day, week in, month out, all year round. Mother, professional, boss, Wonder Woman, all the labels the magazines loved to pin on women like her, as burdensome as the tote bags they slung over their shoulders.

Sarah got out of bed, showered and dressed. Her movements were precise, efficient, pre-programmed; like a musician in a military marching band. Down in the kitchen, she laid the breakfast table, always in the same order: milk/bowls/orange juice/chocolate powder. Pancakes for Hannah and Simon, cereal for Ethan, a double espresso for her.