“I was in Bologna on the night of 1 to 2 August. I was travelling with a friend, we were supposed to catch a train 240early in the morning. We got to the station the night before and decided to sleep there. In the second-class waiting room. We had no money, that’s how we travelled. Around dawn I felt bad – we’d been smoking and drinking the previous night – and my friend took me to Emergency. When they discharged me, we tried to get back to the station, but the streets were cordoned off – there were police cars everywhere and ambulances with sirens, and nobody knew what was going on. Some people said there’d been a gas leak that had caused an explosion and there were probably victims. It wasn’t until a few hours later that it was clear what had really happened. I think the bomb was about six feet from where we’d lain down to sleep.”

While Lorenza was telling this story, I was thinking something very distinctly, something I’d thought before but never with such clarity. This woman belonged to a dimension of existence that was different from mine. She had brushed against History, she led a life filled with experiences and mystery and fascinating prospects. A life about which, by the way, I knew almost nothing. She would become a famous writer, she would travel, she would live through all sorts of adventures. I had no part in any of that. I was just passing through. Sooner or later that little piece of road we’d walked along together would come to an end and she would zoom off, far away, like a meteor.

We didn’t even go for a pizza. Lorenza said she was tired, and we went home to sleep.

The next day she didn’t get in touch, nor the day after. That was quite normal, so I didn’t pay too much attention. We’d see each other, then she’d disappear and then reappear. She always decided, but with a kind of regularity, a kind of rhythm in a way.241