“No, Clotilde,” said Marguerite. “I was in Florence only temporarily.” There, take the news and stuff it, she invited her silently as the large woman hung over them inquisitively.

“I’ve been out of touch, of course,” Clotilde answered swiftly. “An International Poetry Conference in Rumania—I was the only Italian representative—and looking over various translations of my books, plus preparing my new manuscript, the American adventures of Apuleius’ Golden Ass. Sometimes I’d just like to give it all up and live simply like everyone else.”

“You owe it to your readers to keep on, Clotilde,” Massimo told her.

Marguerite busied herself with the bread to keep from laughing.

“Oh, I know it, Massimo, but I get so exhausted; my nerves are just worn down to nothing. Call me soon—we can go to the cabaret in Trastevere where some of my things have been put to music and are being sung. Ciao, Marguerite; tell Alberto I think he doesn’t love me anymore. It’s three months since I sent him a copy of my last poetry collection and I haven’t seen a hint of a review yet.”

“L’Armadio,” said Marguerite dryly as Clotilde left. “That’s what she’s called and it suits her fine—she’s as big as a wardrobe and just as crammed full. She drives Alberto crazy. Is she a good friend of yours?”

“Couldn’t you tell?” he answered sarcastically. “I see her every so often. She’s on the jury of some new prize and wants me to submit my new manuscript.”

“Oh, don’t get involved in that scramble for prizes,” Marguerite burst out impetuously. “I mean . . . you’re different . . . you can make it on your own merits.” She knew how stupid, how foolishly ingenuous that remark must sound to an Italian writer, for whom intrigue was the soul of life. “What I really mean is your books are alive and pointed toward the future; the rest of them are passé—that’s why they have to deal out prizes to each other, to remind themselves they still exist.”

“What you say is right, in principle,” he said cautiously, still appraising her, “but in practice it’s different. How can anyone get ahead in this country without keeping in touch, seeing certain people, competing for the prizes? It’s the only way to get noticed, to get reviewed, to meet people who can help.”

“Is that why you see Clotilde—to have her vote? I have no vote. You’re wasting your time with me.”

“No, I’m not.”

Why should I care about Clotilde, Marguerite thought.

Clotilde had married the brilliant critic who had started her fame, old Rouge et Boire as he was known for his drinker’s nose, but that had lasted only briefly and, everyone said, was a white marriage at that. Marguerite wondered how any woman could prefer literary glory to love when she had the choice.