She’d finally found an opportunity to plan a festival in a medieval villa she was crazy about, an enchanting place she’d made her early escapes to, with her grown-up boyfriends. For some time, she’d looked for just the right event, and she’d finally found one: an evening, next January, on the subject of violence against women. She happened to meet a member of the family who owned the villa, and this person told her about a recently discovered ancestral diary which documented the violence inflicted on this woman by her husband, and it was written with an “unusually modern sensibility” for the mid-nineteenth century. This noblewoman, Barbara explained, already knew one hundred and sixty years ago that this type of sex “wasn’t a conjugal duty. It was murder without a corpse.” They’d decided to hold this event on the anniversary of this woman’s death, in January: a date that was alarmingly close, but that Barbara felt compelled to accept. The public notice of regional cultural activities could be modified to include this event. But it was a delicate affair, given that the Mafia Capitale scandal had been a main topic of conversation since June, and names related to this woman were under investigation: a change to the notice, though in good faith and with no personal gain, had to be carefully worked out so as to avoid being misconstrued. Now and then, Rome was keen on complying with regulations, and during these brief periods, you had to do everything very precisely, but doing everything very precisely was impossible. She knew that throughout the proposal process, she’d face all kinds of bureaucratic obstacles, lazy administrators, who, if they couldn’t steal, wouldn’t risk anything in the name of beauty.

Story over, she grew quiet, peeling the matcha-green enamel off her nails. “What?” I asked, and she said: “I’m thinking that hindsight’s not the point here. From our perspective, we understand that was violence, but in the mid-nineteenth century, they didn’t. The same way I think that in 2100, they’ll look back, read your biography, and say you robbed me of my home, and they’ll see this as violence, and will say you were a man of your time. Just a small-minded man.”

“Fine,” I said, “and you’re completely nuts.” I had one hand on the wheel, and I heard the click of the car lock, and then her door was opening. I was going only fifty because it was a two-lane road, winding, badly maintained, and those familiar with it were driving so recklessly, I slowed down even more. I had both hands on the wheel now, and I checked the rearview mirror. I was afraid of getting rear-ended, imagined the bottles shattering in the trunk. She had the door cracked open, was clutching the handle—I told myself she couldn’t possibly want to throw herself out—the situation wasn’t that dire.