“Don’t worry about literacy in Italy, mia cara,” Leone said heartily. “It’s already spreading too far. Today the maid cornered me in the elevator and said she had written a poem that she was going to send to the magazine Annabella and to the pope. But she wanted me to read it first.”

“You Americans!” said Cesare, directing himself to Marguerite. “Always so practical. Who in Italy would give up the excitement and pleasure of intriguing and scheming and slandering to get a million lire in a prize just to earn it honestly? You think something as tame as public libraries and literacy is going to appeal to Italians? Prizefighting is a way of life in Italy—thrilling, passionate, corrupt, malicious, a testing of one’s cleverness. After all, if it were only a question of the best book winning, what fun would there be in getting a Strega, for instance? What’s important is not the book but all the background skill of arranging one’s votes, getting to the voters, making important contacts, deploying oneself at the right receptions and cocktail parties. Italians have always esteemed cleverness in itself no matter toward what end it’s used.”

“I don’t object to the prizes,” said Aurelia Eccli. “How would writers live if they didn’t have the prizes to help them along?” And in the cool night air she pulled over her shoulders the platinum-mink coat that represented Leone’s last year of prizes.

“Who do you think will win the Strega this year?” Alberto asked Servi.

“There’s no big name among the lists this year; there are four or five rather young new writers who are all about equal. Bontelli and a few others. It will be a question of personality in the end. Whoever can charm the most voters or whoever has the right contacts and influence. It should be interesting this year just for that, since there’s no author from the established ranks who has to be paid off for sentimental reasons or because it is his turn.”

“Too bad you don’t have a book this year,” Marguerite said to Alberto. “We could use the money to fix up the house in the Marche.”

“Well, I’ve got the Pisa—some group up there has decided to give me half a million lire and a statuette of the Leaning Tower in gold for the poetry collection that came out a year or so ago.”

“Give us this day our daily prize—eh, Alberto?” said Leone.

“Maybe we can pawn the tower,” said Marguerite, thinking of the Monte di Pietà she saw from the roof at Angela’s place.