That spring, during a lunch under a restaurant pergola, I convinced the rich owner of a small publishing house to hire me. I’d been to his barely furnished office in a palazzo in the historic center, had advised him on foreign books to buy, and helped procure a story collection by an English writer friend of mine. Now one of his staff, an aristocrat named Asia, was pregnant and about to go on that sort of maternity leave which, for well-off women, was code for not returning to work. The publisher wanted to capitalize on this, to hire someone to help raise his profile, and so he offered me a temporary replacement contract that could develop into something else. He wanted to concentrate on the business, not the books: to come up with ways to generate new revenue, to open a writing school, maybe. He wanted me to take on some of his responsibilities as editor in chief, and also get him into certain circles.

Afterward, I drove back in a warm downpour, completely drenched, and I was shaking profoundly with endorphins, an internal rain that went along nicely with the rain hitting my skin, and my yelps in the traffic on Muro Torto: “I am so cool!—so cool!” At home I stripped at the door, left my wet clothes in a pile, and raced to the shower, and I remember two different sensations of heat, inside and out, and my cold hair as it warmed.

Some details about my father. [It might seem like I’m going off-topic by dwelling on him, but the more I reread these pages about us and my relationship to his legacy, the more I realize that a man’s carelessness toward women has a great deal to do with what form his obsession takes toward his father.] He’s a sweet, private man; giving of himself is painful, depresses him, but he has no choice—he does nothing for himself. A mother who died young, and an elderly father, middle-class assets divided between too many heirs; a loveless marriage, I think, the only son. I’ve never written a poem about him, but recently, I find myself saying he’s an interesting and decent man, though also strange. He’s opened up to me about ten times over the course of my life, and that’s been to give me some good advice or to cry in frustration over work. But then it’s as if these discussions never took place: “It helps to talk with you—we understand each other,” he says every time. “I should do it more often.” But then it doesn’t happen.

Now I don’t ask. I’ve started giving him presents instead: I’ll order him useful accessories online that I buy for myself, too: charging cords, extra batteries, elegant key cases, Japanese stationery.

I’ve never heard his genuine fatherly voice, the voice he uses with the startup founders (they’re often younger than me now) when he’s advising them, supervising them. I’ll go by his office sometimes and hear him talking on the phone. An authoritative voice, unwavering. I have heard him attempt that voice with me, though, when he’s given me advice.