That opportunity arose, finally, in the fourth year of my marriage. One November morning, on my way to work beneath a pelting grey rain, I saw a man at the wheel of a big black car, parked in front of my bank, taking photographs. I had already seen him from a distance: he would hold a tiny camera to his eye and snap the pictures – three, four, five at a time – with a calm and expert fury. After this he would hide his hand and, for a few moments, stare into space. But all of a sudden he would start snapping pictures again. What was he taking pictures of? It was obvious: the entrance to the bank. I came a little closer and got a better look at him. From behind, he seemed to be a man of short stature. He had a broad forehead, a hook nose, and a well-drawn mouth. He reminded me of certain prints portraying the young Napoleon. Then I passed him. He put his hand down and looked at me, as if waiting for me to disappear. Then, inexplicably, I don’t know what impulse made me wink at him. He saw the wink and nodded, to show me that he’d noticed. I crossed the avenue with a determined step, wrapped in my bright red trench coat. I joined the group of employees at the entrance to the bank. When I turned around, the car was gone.

Fifteen days went by. One morning I came out of the bank to go home. While walking, I realized that I did not feel any part of the relief and joy that swept through the streets in waves, like on Sundays, as the offices and schools emptied out for the day and the people who had been holed up in them, forced to work or study, were leaving, emancipated, and hurrying home. I felt no relief or joy: I was already thinking of the lunch I would cook, the dishes I would wash, the love-making I would perform. Then, suddenly, I looked up and saw, right next to me, the photographer who, at the wheel of his car, was following me step by step. Our eyes met. And then he propositioned me with a short sentence of an unrepeatable obscenity. I didn’t hesitate. I nodded yes. He stopped the car, opened the door, and I got in.

We went a short way, to a deserted spot on the Lungotevere, parked, and he immediately tried to kiss me, as if he were following a pre-established plan. When he wasn’t moving, as I said, he resembled a young Napoleon. But as soon as his face lit up in any expression, it immediately revealed the vulgarity, though not without grace, of a small-town gangster. I pushed him away and said, ‘Quit pawing me, there’s time for that. Now tell me what you want from me.’

Undeterred, he answered, ‘I want you.’

‘No, you don’t want me. If you wanted only me, then it would mean that you’re a fetishist.’