The heroines didn’t go out in the sun. They each waited inside for their heroes to return home when they would dry their sweat and iron their silk shirts. The women went out only at night and, exercising their wily ways, they would flick flirtatious glances with their stray-cat eyes behind their companions’ backs.

Since I adhere to the laws of nature, and love the heat of the sun in summer, the heat of the stove in winter, I was among those heroes who hadn’t fled the city during the summer onslaught. The heroine chosen to dry my sweat was called Aminta.¹ This was once a male name, but my girlfriend’s father did not know literary history, and eighteen years earlier, trusting his own ear, he had imposed that name on his newborn daughter. The priest who baptized her didn’t dare inform the father of his innocent error.

Aminta, at the first heat of summer, conceded immediately to the excellent reasons I had used to convince her that we should stay in Rome instead of departing for the mountains or seaside.

And so the first eight days of the heatwave passed easily.

On Aminta’s pale face, I never once detected the slightest indication of regret, repentance, disrespect or desire.

I was therefore astonished when, on the afternoon of the ninth day, having returned from my rounds on the blazing streets, Aminta, after a jubilant greeting, approached me where I had sunk down upon a couch in my study and, placing a hand on my shoulder, said suddenly:

‘Darling, you must give me a small present, you must have a beautiful bathing suit made for me.’

I felt my brow furrow.

My disparaging masculine soul became muddy with suspicion.

I stared at her grimly:

‘What for, Aminta? What has come over you? Aren’t we divinely happy in Rome? Are you thinking of leaving? Of perhaps going to the beach? Oh, I have explained to you again and again that –’

‘No, no,’ she interrupted, her eyes, her brow, her mouth, her whole body laughing, ‘I didn’t mean that at all. Yes, we’re very happy here in Rome. Who would dream of leaving? I simply want a beautiful bathing suit in order to have a beautiful bathing suit.’

‘And once you have it?’

‘I will put it on.’

‘When?’

‘Every so often. For a little while every day.’

‘And then?’

‘And then after a while I will take it off.’

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it. I swear.’

She was so transparent, all suspicion vanished from my soul.

I kept quiet for a minute in order to give greater weight to the words I was about to utter, then declared:

‘Very well, all is fine. Yes, darling, go ahead and have a beautiful bathing suit made for yourself.’

She clapped her hands and jumped for joy, then tenderly kissed all of the sweat off my face in gratitude.

Over the next few days she was very busy. As for her research, studies, attempts, doubts and resolutions regarding the construction of her bathing suit, I wasn’t privy to her secrets. She went out a few times during the day and stayed in her room for long hours with a seamstress. She wouldn’t allow me to know a thing. She wanted to surprise me with an unexpected masterpiece. Her face was full of happiness, day and night.