“When I tell this to Aurelia she says I’m a baby about politics—un’innocente. Alberto is certainly more honest than Leone and the rest of them. They think his Catholicism is only a sham to advance himself with the Christian-Democrats. And the Christian-Democrats abhor him because he’s for the pill, for abortion, for abolition of religion in public schools, and even, in theory, for divorce. He writes as he wishes and no party wants him because he’s too free. He is what he is from conviction, not from what’s fashionable in politics.”

“Alberto,” said Massimo deliberately, “has his own reality, just as we have ours. No, he has more than we; he has his serenity, too.” He looked at her with concern. “You’re not eating. What do you want? Figs . . . melon . . . ice-cream . . . grapes?”

“Nothing, only to be with you.”

In the car he pushed back her skirt, saying, “It gives me such a feeling of tenderness toward you—the way you come to meet me with such naturalness. As if you had no other problems, no worries, no other life. You have this directness that is very moving; it makes you incredibly young and fresh. But how can it be? You’ve suffered, too. Your life hasn’t been easy.”

“I have a whole inner life of my own.” She smiled at her words.

“Già! That’s what saves us!”

Up in her room they undressed in the light of a kerosene lamp. He was a tender lover, and a strong one—generous, expert, demanding. “What are you thinking of?” he asked afterward, as they lay entangled.

“You know—that you are as beautiful as the sun. More beautiful than . . .” She looked to the rafters, her hands tracing the space, groping for help.

“Than Cesare Servi? The pope?”

“That’s it,” she laughed, kissing him.

“You too.”

“Buffone! . . . Are you a pirate?”

“Why?”

“You’re so dark . . . like a Saracen, a Turk, an Etruscan.”

“I was very light as a child. This is my real color,” and he pointed to a minute strip of lighter flesh just above the groin, which was the only part of him not tanned by the sun.

“I like you dark, and your skin tasting so salty from the sea.”

“I’ll go to the sea every day until November to store it up, and during the winter I’ll use a sunlamp if you like me like this.”

“And I’ll do exercises to keep my figure and have massages once a week.”

“Amore, you don’t need massages. Look at you—you’re perfect as you are, firm and well made. Better undressed than dressed. What you have to arrange is some night course in something so that you can get out two or three times a week. We can go to the theater, or visit the galleries, or come here. Then in the spring we’ll go back to the beach.”