Emma came to wish me goodnight. She was smiling, rosy, fresh. Her brief fit of tears had given way to a reaction of joy, as happens in all young and healthy bodies. I had been reading other people’s states of mind well for a little while, and, besides, my daughter was clear water. My outburst of anger had conferred importance on her in front of everybody, and she was savouring it with complete naivety. I gave her a kiss and am sure I thought it was lucky for me that she was so happy and pleased. To bring her up, to be sure, it would have been my duty to warn her that she had not shown me sufficient respect. She left, and nothing remained of my attempt to come up with those words but a worry, a vagueness, an effort that stayed with me for some time. To calm down, I thought: ‘I’ll talk to her tomorrow. I’ll tell her my reasons.’ But it did no good. I had offended her, and she had offended me. And I was offended again that she should no longer be thinking about it, whereas I still was.

Ottavio came to say goodnight to me as well. An odd kid. He said goodnight to me and to his mother almost without seeing us. He had already left when I reached him with my shout:

‘Glad to be going to the movies?’

He stopped, made an effort to remember, and, before resuming his flight, said drily:

‘Yes.’

He was very sleepy.

My wife handed me the pillbox.

‘These are the ones?’ I asked, a chilly mask on my face.

‘Yes, of course,’ she said nicely.

She examined me and, not knowing how to read me otherwise, asked me hesitantly:

‘Are you feeling all right?’

‘Perfectly fine,’ I said resolutely, taking off a boot.

And at that very instant my stomach started burning frightfully. This was what she wanted, I thought, with a logic I doubt only now.

I took the pill with a sip of water and got a bit of relief from it. I kissed my wife on the cheek mechanically. It was a kiss such as could accompany the pills. I couldn’t avoid it if I wanted to spare myself arguments and explanations. But I was unable to retire for the night without spelling out my position in the fight that, for me, had still not ended, and as I settled into bed I said: ‘I think the pills would work better taken with wine.’

She turned off the light, and very soon the regularity of her breathing told me her conscience was clear; that is, I immediately thought, the uttermost indifference to anything that had to do with me. I had been awaiting that instant eagerly, and immediately I told myself I was finally free to breathe noisily, as it seemed to me the state of my body required, or even to sob, as I would have liked to in my despondency. But the anxiety, as soon as it was free, became an even more real anxiety. This was certainly not liberty. How to give vent to the anger raging in me? I could do nothing other than turn over in my mind what I would say to my wife and daughter the next day. ‘Are you really so concerned about my health, when you annoy me in front of everybody?’ It was absolutely true. And here I was, alone, racking my brains in bed, and they were sleeping peacefully. What a burning sensation! A large expanse that was flowing into my throat had overrun my body. The bottle of water had to be on the night table by the bed, and I put my hand out for it. But I hit the empty glass, and it took only the light clink to wake up my wife. As it is, she always sleeps with one eye open.