Wait a minute, you’re the one who’s always saying: ‘Respect is what matters, respect is everything.’

Right now, though, I need to get some sleep. I have to get up early, I have a class first thing. He never feels sleepy in the evening, and in the morning, by the time he’s up, his coffee has gone cold … ‘Have you stirred the sugar?’ he mutters, making himself even more comfortable. He drives me up the wall. I have to tell him about the electricity bill, twelve thousand lire for two people is too much, he keeps the light on all night; although according to the electrician, it’s the boiler that really uses up energy … I stir the little spoon a dozen times at the bottom of the cup; no, I’ll tell him later. Right now, he needs to make up his mind to cut out those twenty lines that don’t work in the story, that monologue makes no sense, he’s so fond of it, he gets so carried away with these inane flights of fancy. ‘Listen,’ I begin, stirring the spoon nine times, but no, why must I always wake him up with some tiresome reminder? I lean over him, his eyelids are red, there are dark, hollow rings under his eyes, his mouth is weary, I wait; even if he sleeps for just another five minutes that’s something; I look at him, gently stir the spoon the number of months, years that I’ve known him; soon we’ll be old.

He lacks judgement. The other night I wake up, the opaque whiteness of dawn is already casting stripes across the room (I’ve forgotten to close the blinds again, I’ll get up now, in a while), and what do I see? The light’s on, filtering beneath the door. ‘For heaven’s sake!’ I cry, throw back the blankets and jump out of bed, totally roused now by my anger. I go to his study and fling open the door: he’s sitting numbly behind the desk, his face haggard, green, the room foggy with smoke, the ashtrays overflowing with cigarette ends, the carton of milk balanced on the edge of the table. Of course I lay into him, and he looks at me distantly, resentfully, increasingly pale, startled in his solitude.

‘If I said that,’ I hesitated, ‘I didn’t mean …’ (His lips have tightened in a bitter smile.) ‘It’s because I don’t like it when –’

‘You always do this: you either shoot me down or you give in.’

‘Couldn’t you at least –’

‘Don’t take that tone with me, I’m not one of your stupid pupils.’ He points his finger at my chest. ‘You either shoot me down or you give in. There’s no middle ground. As far as you’re concerned, I’m an illogical person, someone who tortures himself for no reason, isn’t that what you think?’ (I hear his agitated breathing; he gets up laboriously from his chair, aching all over.) ‘As far as you’re concerned, all I do is count ants, isn’t that so? Ants!’ He takes a few stiff steps towards me: ‘I count ants,’ he says again emphatically.