I had recently broken up, not altogether amicably, with my girlfriend Rossana. We’d been together, through ups and downs, for most of our time at university. When we said goodbye, she told me a series of things about me, none of them pleasant, as far as I recall: I had a tendency to rationalize everything out of a fear of intimacy; I used irony to avoid responsibility for my feelings; I was incapable of true commitment and, in spite of appearances, I was someone who led a passive existence. Things like that.

That afternoon in March 1987, having been unattached for a couple of weeks, I was dawdling on my way to the office. In Via Sparano I bumped into a guy named Saverio, otherwise known as Verio (yes, whoever had thought of the nickname hadn’t made much of an effort), who I’d occasionally hung 57out with. He was a year older than me, was studying medicine, lived in Poggiofranco, was gay (there weren’t a lot of people in those days who declared it openly), had a certain tendency to talk too much and when very young had been a champion horse rider, a sport he had abandoned for unknown reasons.

We hugged and he gave me two big kisses on my cheeks, the kind that make a smacking sound.

“Guido Guerrieri, great to see you, it’s been a while. Going anywhere nice?”

“To work,” I replied, in a tone that implied that if I didn’t have to earn a living, I’d certainly know how to spend my afternoons.

“Work,” he repeated. The word seemed to make an impression. “You’re becoming a lawyer, is that right?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying it, but I’m not sure it’s right for me. How about you? How long before you graduate?”

“A year, more or less. Then I don’t know. Maybe I’d like to go abroad to specialize.”

“Great,” I said, just to say something.

“Are you still with that blonde girl? What’s her name?”

“Rossana. No, not any more.”

“Sorry to hear that. She had blue, almost violet eyes, really special. Like Elizabeth Taylor.”

The subject made me uncomfortable. So I uttered a series of things about relationships that end after a while, that’s life, and other banalities that I fortunately don’t remember.

“What are you doing this evening?” he asked me.

“I don’t have any plans,” I replied, a touch cautiously.

“Why don’t you come to a party? It’s at the home of a friend of mine, there’ll be loads of people. Maybe you’ll meet somebody, seeing as how you’re a free man now.”58