She was born in captivity, in that wretched failed circus, so she has no memory of Africa, the forests, the elephants. If she does dream, maybe it’s about the circus, and the acts they made her perform, dressing her up as a grandmother knitting, a clown tumbling about, a sailor riding a bicycle, a waitress serving at a table … Or else, as is more likely, she dreams about her love, in other words, me. Because even at night her hand searches for me. She is content with a slight touch, I feel those fleshy, oh-so-delicate parts of her fingertips, and immediately I react, stiffening the muscles in my shoulder and in the arm she has touched, in order to calm her and lull her back into a deep sleep.

At night, I’m more aware of how small she is. If she were taller, everything would be much more convenient. I hear her breathing, and in the dark, with my eyes open, I’m a little scared of that bristly, frail little body of hers, wrapped in a summer blouse that’s hardly any length at all. I bought a similar blouse in a large shop years ago, pretending it was for one of my daughters. Since then, Gilda has sewn herself another three, in different colours, and when she comes out of the bathroom in those few centimetres of cloth and gets ready for bed, I’m really touched.

My insomnia, though, poisons these thoughts. For some nights now, I’ve actually been wishing that Gilda were taller. I realize that the image of a Gilda who’s at least one metre sixty tall is starting to upset me. You’re being stupid, I try to rebut myself, your life is perfect, don’t make it a matter of centimetres. And besides: how do you know what she thinks? How do you know that she doesn’t dream of a male baboon of her own who’s smaller and more efficient than you?

These are troublesome thoughts that I can’t easily dismiss. And at such moments I am afraid to reach out my hand and feel that poor little heap of bones sleeping by my side.

Then the insomnia loses its grip and starts to recede, and as I fall asleep I somehow manage to free myself of these idiotic ravings.

I am cursed.

Why does a man always manage – never deliberately, but simply out of inertia and madness – to ruin what he has that’s beautiful and good and useful?

Or does my curse depend on a conjunction of the stars, which, as soon as they see I’m at peace, immediately set about making me take the wrong step?

To be brief: I went to the zoo yesterday. It was Sunday, and the first sunny day after a very long winter. I didn’t want to go alone, so Gilda went with me: she was a little reluctant, because she doesn’t like leaving the house, she’s scared of people and, especially, dogs. Seeing, though, that I insisted, and was laughing, and the sunlight in the kitchen was making me cheerful, she put on her best skirt and came with me, holding me by the hand.