After a few years in which he hadn’t felt the need to visit Iacopo, let alone contribute to his upbringing, and after various adventures (some of which had aroused the interest of the Carabinieri), he had ended up in Cancún in Mexico, running a bar on the beach. One evening, as he was on his way home, his car had been hit by a truck and that was the end of that. Iacopo, to all intents and purposes, had never known him: that first year was beyond the scope of his memories.

As she continued to tell her rather painful story in the tone of a police report, I suddenly remembered an evening we’d spent together on a beach, at sunset.

We were with two girlfriends of hers, we had wine and pot. We talked – actually, as usual, Lorenza was doing most of the talking – about books, films, ideas. I don’t remember exactly what the specific subject was – maybe it wasn’t clear to anybody or maybe my capacity for concentration was too compromised by the alcohol and the cannabis – but I do remember thinking how exciting this bohemian life, the life of a poète maudit (yes, at the time I was lacking in a sense of the ridiculous) that I found myself leading – how exciting it was, what with drugs, poetry, sex and great literary discussions.

I was a confused, directionless young man who liked stories, fascinated by the idea of having the kind of experiences you read about in novels. When as an adult, at the age of forty or fifty, I try to remember my adventurous youth – this was what I told myself – it’s evenings like this I’ll think about.

That hadn’t happened. I’d soon forgotten all about Lorenza and that world of chipped cups, kitchens with unwashed dishes in the sink, fake anti-conformism, rooms that weren’t very clean or tidy (because cleanliness and tidiness were bourgeois and philistine) and books read – maybe – without 139any pleasure and without any interest in what they contained, just to be able to show them off.

She continued talking and drinking, and the second bottle of wine was also polished off, although I hadn’t contributed a great deal to the undertaking.

When we left the restaurant she suggested we walk a little, to chat some more. Her eyes were a little clouded and softened by the wine. She looked almost cheerful, but there was an undertone I’d have preferred not to catch.

“It’s late, I have a hearing tomorrow,” I lied. And before she could say anything else: “I’ll call you a taxi.”

As we said goodbye, she thanked me, smiled and gave me a kiss on the lips.

It was a clumsy kiss, and it seemed out of place. I walked home, thinking that dinner hadn’t been such a good idea.

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