In the last years we used to travel, which was the only thing that gave temporary relief to his moods. We went to the Alhambra. In Lake Como, we stayed at the Villa d’Este and walked through the gardens of the Villa Carlotta and the Villa Cipressi. We went to Arezzo to see the Piero della Francescas, and to Florence to see the Fra Angelicos. It was my first time in Italy, and he insisted that I climb the stairs to the top of the Duomo and tour its double shell, while he sat having coffee below. At a time agreed upon in advance, I was to exit onto the tiny lookout terrace at the very top and wave to him, and he, in turn, was to wave back at me. The going was difficult—the stairs were steep, and the passageways were very narrow, and many times I had to beat back a suffocating sense of claustrophobia. I had to run up the last flights of stairs to make it to the lookout to wave at the appointed time, and when I got there, I was gasping for breath. The claustrophobia turned out to be nothing compared with the vertigo. Gripping the wall, legs shaking, I looked down over the ledge. Far below, among the little white specks of the café tables set out on the square, I saw a figure waving. I waved back. He waved again, and I waved once more. He went on waving, as if out of inertia. How long must this go on? I wondered. And then I understood that I was considering leaving him—leaving him alone with all of those ghosts and demons and starting life again, somewhere else. Everything was still possible for me, the door stood open. Down below, he continued waving. Now I had the feeling that he was trying to say something. Don’t ask me how I knew; obviously I couldn’t make out his face from so high up. Somehow I just knew that he was mouthing something to me, or maybe shouting it, both of which were equally futile. I thought that something was wrong, so I turned and hurried all the way down the narrow stairs, going around and around and still not reaching the bottom, getting nowhere near the bottom, frankly, while, God knows, he might have been having a heart attack in the square. But when I finally emerged into the daylight and ran to the café, sweating profusely, I found him absorbed in a newspaper.

What were you trying to tell me? I asked. Tell you? he said. What do you mean? I was blinded by the glare. I didn’t even know whether you were up there.