December 21 – Last night, in a café in Via Veneto, a table of young pederasts were talking about the Martian: so audibly that one could not avoid hearing what they said. Thus it seems that the Martian has befriended a young and unknown film actor. But it also seems that the Martian lives in the preoccupation of appearing politically orthodox to the (invisible) eyes of his fellow planetsmen, who certainly monitor him with the means they possess which we cannot even imagine. Maybe some remote-controlled microphones? All hypotheses are possible. Hence, the Martian, locked in his hotel room with the young actor, after having amused himself at length, would have got up and, with the attitude of someone who intends to address a visible listener, would have said aloud, articulating his words clearly: ‘But why don’t you come live on Mars, Home of True Democracy?’

December 22 – The Martian agreed to play a small role as a Martian in a film, which would be directed by Roberto Rossellini, who is pushing for the participation of a Martian company in the financing of the film. Mario Soldati, whom I saw today at Rossetti’s, spoke to me about the new book he wants to write before beginning his new film. It’s a story that takes place in Turin, in 1932. He was very happy, Soldati, telling me the plot. He left because he was rushing to get shaved. He had purchased some paper goods. I saw him disappear like a butterfly.

January 6 – The Christmas holidays went by, as usual, melancholically. And it’s hot! I was out a little late last night in Via Veneto, because I was not sleepy. At a table at Rosati’s, there were Pannunzio, Libonati, Saragat, Barzini and other political journalists. They were speaking about proportional representation. At another table, the Martian with Mino Guerrini, Talarico and Accolti-Gil. It was obvious that they were mocking him in good humour. A bus boy was already dumping sawdust on the floor, and when I walked by I heard Accolti-Gil saying this to the Martian: ‘If you come to Capri for Easter, I will introduce you to Malaparte. Great brain, more than Levi. Insightful connoisseur, central and northern question.’ The Martian was nodding, courteous and distracted. Because a waiter, quite rudely, made it clear that it was closing time, everyone stood up. Even the Martian exited, and said goodbye to us from the doorway, then headed towards the Hotel Excelsior. Sitting at the last table, next to the gas pump at the corner of Via Lombardia, there was Faruk. He was whistling, watching the sky filled with pink clouds, he too absorbed in a melancholic thought of his own. Leaning his elbows on the wicker chair, he held his hands together in front of his mouth; he fidgeted slowly with his fingers and whistled. But softly, like a king in exile might whistle, or a Muslim who imagines the notion of pleasure. Two tables away, some taxi drivers were discussing football; and further down the old cigarette guy was bouncing around, waiting for someone to call on him. This is, for me, such a familiar picture that it never fails to move me, and in fact I smiled, thinking of this sweet Rome that mixes the most distinct destinies in a maternal, implacable whirl.