“That when we’re both famous they’ll put a plaque on this building to say that here we loved each other. But not a short plaque—a long one covering the whole front wall and saying that in this palace, a former dépendance of the princely Spada family, there lived from the time of its renovation the following occupants: an Italian deputy to Parliament; a young political-geographer working hard to finish his dissertation so that he could marry his sweetheart, who came to visit him on weekends; a young French dancer named Philippe, whose naked torso appeared each evening in the large window overlooking the piazza; an American guidance counselor who had in his bookcase a volume called The Honest Way to Sex; a lady called Portia Paradise; two call girls who arrived late at night with gentlemen callers; and on the roof, above the top-floor apartment of the famous journalist Angela Cambio, the American photographer Marguerite Morosini, who was made love to by the illustrious writer Massimo Bontelli. This was the moment of the palazzo’s chief glory. It was restored for rental by a diplomat’s son with a lot of time on his hands. It was cleaned by Maria. It was cool in the summer and probably also in winter. But there were fireplaces in each apartment, and the room on the roof had a wood-burning stove; and as soon as the great Italian writer had been translated into English and sold into American dollars by his love they got a bundle of money with which to buy a Peruvian fur rug to put on the floor in front of the stove where they made love from the hours of two to five and nine to eleven—until the writer decided to retire from his work and spend all his time on his art. The fire was incensed by the pinecones the writer and his love gathered at Fregene. There were cushions and clothes all over the floor. The sailcloth curtains were pulled down because the room was only an arm’s reach across the alley from the neighbors, who hung out of their windows. The terrible voice of the fishwife known as Principessa Spada tore through the walls as she harangued her husband, the prince. The writer and his love were usually wise and provident enough to have bought a roast chicken, bread, and castagnaccio from the rosticceria in Campo di Fiori, which they ate under their blanket, like Bedouins, to restore themselves. But sometimes she had to search the place for crackers and a can of sardines. Then they showered downstairs in Angela’s place, and he went to work and she returned home. Thus was fame conferred on this palace situated in Piazza Capo di Ferro.”

“Ti voglio tanto bene, amore. You are a precious thing for me.”

“Are we lovers?” she asked.

“Almost,” he said, smiling.

“We understand each other, don’t we?”

“Completely.”