Unglued and diligent, from eight in the evening until six in the morning I am the perfect beautiful young wife of an older judge; from six in the evening until nine at night the perfect stepmother to the judge’s two children by his first wife; and from eight-thirty until one-thirty the perfect bank clerk. Why do I keep this schedule? Because there is no time in my life except for the time I see on my watch; all the other times are off-limits to me. Every day I get up at six, wash and dress myself, wake the children, help them to wash and get dressed, and I then prepare breakfast for everyone. After that my husband leaves in his car. First he’ll drop the children off at school, with the nuns, where they are day students. Then he’ll drive to the courthouse. I walk to the bank, not far from home. At the bank, so serious and diligent that my colleagues jokingly call me Miss Dutiful, I keep myself busy until one-thirty. Then I walk back home. The part-time maid has already done the shopping from a list that I prepare every night before turning in. I go to the kitchen, open up bags and boxes, turn on the burners, and prepare a light lunch for my husband and me. My husband arrives. We sit down at the table. After eating I wash the dishes and put everything back in its place. Then we move to the bedroom. It’s time to make love, and my husband likes it at that hour because at night he’s too tired. At four o’clock he leaves and a few minutes later the children arrive. Without taking a break, I prepare a snack for them, watch TV with them, help them do their homework, cook them dinner, put them to bed. By now it’s eight o’clock and my husband arrives home. He sits down to read the newspaper. I run to the bedroom, put on a fancy dress, put on my make-up, fix my hair, and then we go out to dinner at a restaurant or a friend’s house, and then to the cinema. At this point, however, I collapse because, for years, I’ve been losing about two hours of sleep a day. So I doze off wherever I happen to be: at the dinner table, at a restaurant, in my seat at the cinema, next to my husband while he’s driving the car. Do I love my husband? Let’s just say that I’m fond of him. Besides, I don’t have time for thoughts like this.

And yet, despite this life as Miss Dutiful, I don’t stick to the things I do. I always feel, as I said, unglued. By the way, I said that my other side of the moon is unknown not only to others, but also to me. That’s not exactly true: if you know how to read it, this unknown side can be inferred from my facial features. I’ll describe myself, you be the judge. I’m blonde, tall and thin, with a slightly Germanic face, like the ones that peer out from the niches of old gothic churches. I have a triangular face, with the wide part that is my forehead, hard and bony, and the pointed part, my chin, which is fleshy and soft. I have an aquiline nose and thin lips, both of noble design. But my ugly eyes, a washed-out blue, counter the severe nobility of my face, with a gaze so sullen it’s frightening. My eyes have a fleeting, furtive, cold expression, as if lying in wait, like the gaze of an animal that will bite at the first chance.