The moments of embarrassment are another matter. When Rutiliano comes to Ismene at night, Ismene gets out of bed, pulls out the big folding screen, and opens it up between the bed and Bago, in order to hide the bed. Rutiliano is always dismayed by this gesture, and he asks for an explanation. Ismene says she is afraid of the air. The air? Yes, the air that passes under the door. And to reinforce the shelter, Ismene drapes a coverlet over the screen, which she folds back up and places on a chair at night. Rutiliano watches these actions with an uncomprehending eye. Well, what does Rutiliano understand anyway? What does he understand about her? Rutiliano is serious and distant. He never laughs and he busies himself with mysterious jobs that require frequent trips. Despite the mystery that envelops them, Ismene has no interest in finding out about Rutiliano’s jobs. For as far back as her childhood memories can reach, Ismene remembers Rutiliano. He was as much a part of the household as a sofa is part of the living room, as a sideboard is part of a dining room. For Christmas and the Epiphany, Rutiliano used to arrive with an armload of packages, from which he would meticulously extract presents. Ismene would then kiss him on the forehead and say, ‘Thank you, Uncle Rutiliano.’ Uncle was an honorary title and, for Ismene, a synonym for ‘old’. Ismene didn’t like kissing the forehead of Uncle Rutiliano and especially didn’t like being kissed by him. Yet when Mummy died, too, the only thing she could do was marry Uncle Rutiliano. Whom did this marriage benefit? Certainly not Uncle. At least that’s what he said. He no longer expected anything from life. To Ismene, instead, the marriage assured her of a comfortable life and protection. ‘People like us don’t get married just for pleasure.’ This is what Uncle Rutiliano said. He spoke so rarely, but the very few times that he did he uttered indisputable truths. ‘Lucky he speaks so rarely!’ said Billi to Ismene, and he bowed his head. The silk dress, the white veil, the presents, the guests, the dinner could have made their wedding day a happy day, but on that very day Billi left to enlist in the navy. ‘How happy your poor mummy would be, how happy your poor daddy would be!’ said Uncle Rutiliano, who on that day was even quieter than usual.

At the table, in front of the thirty guests who were stuffing their faces, Ismene called her husband ‘Uncle Rutiliano’, and immediately the ice cream went down the wrong way. A few days later, to keep Ismene from making the same mistake, Rutiliano changed his name and had everyone call him Ruti. But it wasn’t true that Ruti was always right. Ismene did not find in her husband the security, the confidence that she had felt with her parents, things she’d hoped to regain in marrying him. She found them instead in Bug, with all that hair over his eyes and oh so human look, and after Bug’s death she found it in Bago. And it was impossible for Bago to die. One day Ruti talked about getting new bedroom furniture, putting in furniture that was lighter, fresher, more suitable for the bedroom of a young bride. Ismene defended ‘her’ furniture with an obstinacy that shocked Ruti. He was dismayed by such a strong attachment to furniture that was worth so little, but deep down he was pleased that he did not have any new expenditures. Ismene, especially when her husband was home, would spend the day in her room, near Bago. The ‘old’ armoire had witnessed her birth, safeguarded her clothes as a little girl and then as a young lady, and now it safeguarded her clothes as a woman. She sits next to the partially closed doors, as if to hear the beating of that dark but profoundly good heart. She confides in him. She tells him things she would never tell others and especially Ruti. She tells him about the return of Billi.