Mehran remembers the evening only vaguely; he has a clearer recollection of Marvi’s version. He also knows about the games Marvi played to make him feel hurt or angry, or anything at all. He’s ceased to care.

To Marco, as he spills out his stories over red wine, Mehran must seem quiet and distracted. Mehran wants only to talk about Riccarda: he waits for a pause, tries to tell Marco about the last time he saw her, and what she said about Marvi.

Marco breaks in. Begins to shout. ‘You destroyed her, you know. You always do. You’re the coldest and most narcissistic man I’ve ever known. You can never have a real relationship, you aren’t capable of that, you were attached for years to the apron strings of a sick woman who summoned you to entertain her when she was bored and always took advantage of you, and now you’re obsessed with her ghost. Very convenient. And what you’ve played at all these years with Marvi, also a walking – or should I say limping – disaster, is a vicarious, virtual game. I’m not shocked that she walked out on you; even her betrayals were only attempts to bring down your walls of ice. Do you know the effect you have on people? You freeze them …’

‘Marco, shut up.’

‘You know what? I enjoyed her advances, because I wanted to know what you saw in her. That’s why I kissed her. You know what she did that night? Just as you rang the bell, she offered to …’

‘I don’t want to hear any of this. You’re paralytic.’

Marco leans over and grabs Mehran’s shoulders, as if he’s about to shake him. Mehran smells his sweat, the red wine and smoke on his breath. Then suddenly his grip slackens; his hands go up to Mehran’s face, firm palms stroking, holding Mehran’s jaw, fingertips tapping Mehran’s cheekbones.

‘Sai che ti voglio tanto bene.’

For a moment Mehran is too stunned to move. Then he shakes Marco off and gets up to leave, feeling unsteady himself. He has always hated red wine.

Marco slumps in his chair; doesn’t offer to drive Mehran back to Trastevere, which is just as well, because he’s been drinking so much, and smoking hashish too. Mehran should be drunk too, but as he walks down the street he only feels cold in the mild night weather; his eyes are stinging from lack of sleep.

Marco seems to be unhappy. His way of speaking is often ponderous, pedantic. Along with the Tantric philosophy he’s been endlessly researching, he’s attending sessions on psychosynthesis or some such arcane discipline that casts shadows in the oddest angles of his life, including the fragile corner of his friendship with Mehran.