Having rid herself of her craving for manual labour, she headed towards what she believed would be the definitive loss of her personality, an irrelevant loss, after all, since every day the lightning-like brilliance of her Partner enriched her and simultaneously obliterated her. For her own amusement, and, in a certain sense, out of a pathetic celebratory pleasure, she started to visit museums and famous churches again, to go regularly to libraries where as a girl she had spent entire days drunk from reading obscure literature and delving into random research. The renewed pleasure of engaging in these activities soon included an active desire to pay secret homage to the great scholar whose name she shared. Scrutinizing old texts, and occasionally finding signs – pencil scribbles in the margins – of her own work as a student, she was stunned by some of her own interpretations. Raising her eyes from the page, she became lost in evoking quasi-optical images of mad warriors, wily monks, plundered cities, dense virgin forests. The historians, the medieval poets, the ugly mugs of Barbarians and Huns fascinated her, but she understood that regrettably none of this was of any use, all of it just a fairy tale she would recount to no one.

Although she was reluctant to engage in relationships of pure convenience, her husband eventually introduced her into the society of artists, writers and poets. Among them she was determined by all to be the beautiful and aloof Mrs X. Whenever in this illustrious company, she was careful not to mention her youthful achievements. But what, in fact, did she actually have to boast about? Certainly not her university studies, or her work as a substitute teacher in high schools, and even less about the few articles she’d published in academic journals. The wives she met were young and vivacious, with some knowledge of literature, art and above all music. None of them had ever worked, but they knew a lot of people and were able to converse with ease. These women did not like her much, but seemed so seductive and intrepid that, almost defensively, she tried her best to improve her appearance, applying light make-up in the hope of not entirely disappearing among all those beauties. The probability was high that her husband could fall for a woman more attractive, more ‘interesting’ than she. Should that happen, there was nothing to do but resign herself to it without thinking of the future. Jealousy is a luxury allowed only to a woman once adored. Her jealousy flashed like lightning, silent and quick. When she was a teenager, she had been obsessed by a classmate who seemed a prodigy of gracefulness. She was sure that the boy she idolized was also smitten with this girl, and he was right to be. In some sense, by proxy, she loved her too. She would never have dared to compare herself with that alabaster face, that smooth coal-black hair, that tall, thin person with an undulating gait. But I am more intelligent, she consoled herself, though she was shattered. The danger passed, and perhaps it had never existed, but now, anticipating that sooner or later something more serious would happen, she tried to reassure herself by studying the effects her own attractiveness had on men. She was incapable of flirting, flattering, acting childishly, but instead became irritated, ironic, caustic. And yet, sometimes she could imagine herself being ‘served’ by a melancholy, yet respectful, dutiful knight. Didn’t her disconsolate early love give her the right to some sweetness? Wasn’t it fair that having given so much without receiving, she should now receive without giving?