She ate a triangle of four seasons pizza and took a sip of her beer. “The publisher hands me the manuscript the author has sent. I read it and identify the inconsistencies, the repetitions, the faux pas, any actual errors. I mark everything in the margin, the manuscript is sent back to the author with my annotations, and he or she decides which to accept and which to reject. After which the book is put into proof form, the proofs are corrected and the book is finally printed.”

We continued talking about what she did – there were points about which she was rather evasive and I didn’t insist – and about lots of other things. It occurred to me that I’d never met a girl – a woman, actually – who was simultaneously so beautiful, so fascinating and so funny. The fact that such an exceptional woman was here with me, having dinner and chatting away, and that she’d actually been the one who’d come looking for me, was a mystery I preferred not to delve too deeply into.

When we left the pizzeria she asked me if I fancied another beer, at her place. I searched for an answer that was brilliant but not too brilliant, and couldn’t think of one. So I just said yes, of course, I’d love a beer.

She parked on Corso Italia, almost on the corner of Via Sagarriga Visconti. It wasn’t, at the time, the ideal area for a woman alone.

“Where do you live?” I asked, getting out of the car.

“Via Eritrea.”

I didn’t know Via Eritrea, even though we weren’t far from where I lived. I discovered it was the name of the little 101street going from Corso Italia to Via Crisanzio. One of those places that, as a child, I thought was inhabited only by dangerous people.

“I live near the Casa delle Rose.”

“The Casa delle Rose?” I had no idea what that was.

“The Casa delle Rose was the most luxurious brothel in Bari until 1958. Then they passed the Merlin Law and the brothels were closed.”

“How do you know? I mean that it was the most luxurious brothel in Bari.”

“I was choosing where to live and I had a couple of options, both in the area. I told my parents. My father said it was best to avoid Via Eritrea. I asked why and he explained. At that point it became obvious I had to choose this apartment.”

“But why didn’t your father want you to?”

“He was afraid the reputation of the place might rub off on his daughter, even though it was more than thirty years ago and nobody remembers it.”