Our poor sister. Her hair hadn’t grown back, and for the drive, instead of a wig, she pulled on a wool ski cap. And around that cap there rose a magnetic field that blocked her from our view. We could only sneak glances at her, at her and what she cared about, that neighborhood or that studio apartment and what I remember most about it: the lack of windows and the glass door leading onto a ledge on the second level that I found frightening, it was so exposed (and—I realize now—was a lot like the door to the apartment where I’ll see Eleonora again, later on in this section). That our sister was virtually invisible still seemed like her fault to us, and our skill in maneuvering that big truck into merging and passing lanes and parking lots; pulling into gas stations to switch drivers; climbing down and back up into the high cab; all these things, to us, smacked of volunteer service.

We unloaded the truck in a suburban zone of a city we knew nothing about. Milan had produced the eighties—women with big tits on private TV, consumerism—only to fade when the nineties reinstated Rome, with its vibrant “grassroots culture” and center-left mayors: from Rome to here, a straight, flat suburb, a light bulb factory on a one-way street, and the gate to Irene’s building, and beyond it, an enclosed garden leading to a printing works.

We brought each piece of furniture onto the main floor, scolding her if we saw her carrying anything heavier than a chair.