“I come from a small place in the Marche, near the sea. I came to Rome after the war like everyone else—including the Americans.”

“Do you know anything about us Americans?”

“Something—why?” He gave her his suspicious, furrowed look that meant he was being careful, going cautiously until he found out what was on her mind.

“Then you know we’re not formal. Don’t call me signora; my name is Marguerite. And I’ll call you—what shall I call you?”

He thought for a moment. “Massimo. Yes, Massimo.”

“Weren’t you sure?”

“Some call me Max . . . my mother called me Mimmo. You can call me Massimo.”

“I like your writing, Massimo. How is it you just started?”

“I’ve been busy surviving. I’ve never studied. I have no culture like Alberto Morosini or Leone Eccli. I’ve always worked. But I’d like to study, learn languages. . . .”

“Oh, no,” she said strongly. “It would be a mistake. You’d lose yourself and become just like the rest of Italian writers. You’ve heard them speak on TV or at lectures—it’s to die asphyxiated in the smog of their rhetoric and intellectualism! They know everything and keep burying the sense of it in language and ideas. They’re like that everywhere—at conferences, at dinner parties, on the beach . . . everywhere. They’re intoxicated with talk. You’re not like that, you don’t talk at all!”

He laughed and said, “Now you know me.”

She surprised herself. Why was she talking—and so plainly?

“All the other Italian writers are professors, teachers, critics, or literary in some way or other. You’re the first I’ve met who isn’t. Don’t ruin it.”

“This meeting with you has been a lucky thing for me,” he said.

“Let’s hope it will be lucky. I’d like to translate some of your stories. You’re a real writer.”

They left, and going up the Spanish Steps she said, “I’ve always wondered how the generals and politicians and fat old bishops make it up all those flights of stairs at the Piazza Venezia monument to put wreaths and things there on holidays. I get winded just looking.”

“Like this,” he said. “Walk with your head and arms a little back. That keeps you from puffing.” He had, in fact, an agile effortless stride. He was not much taller than she but his body was lean. Athletic.

“Look at all the things you know; you don’t have to study anything. It’s been a lucky meeting for me, too. Now I know how to walk up the Spanish Steps properly.”

“With all this luck we shouldn’t waste it. Shall we see each other again?”

“I’m taking my cousins to Pompeii. Shall I call you when I get back?”

“Not at home. This is the number of my office. I’m there in the late afternoon.”