“Then do it! Do what you feel,” he said energetically.

“But I can’t! Don’t you understand that if I do he’ll never agree to the divorce and I haven’t even gotten him yet to sign the first separation agreement.” Her restless eyes jumped around the room, lighting on the print of the Indian dancers above the table, the abstract paintings on the far wall, the avocado pit sprouting in a jar of water, futilely searching for the clues that would tell her who this man was, this person into whose hearing she was pouring the pains of her life.

“There’s a typical female wile for that. You can get him to sign first and then go to bed. This is something all women understand.”

“I . . . I never thought of that,” she stammered, confused.

“It’s something women have always been able to do. It’s a classic stratagem, no?”

She felt a distaste for his masculine presumptuousness. Did he think she would fall into the trap of letting him persuade her about the female role? The hell with the minor roles, she wanted to be a person as much as he.

Marguerite collected herself to go. “I feel so stupid,” she said. No, not stupid; keen and smart enough to see straight into the mess of her life, to know she had always been preparing it. Mad Marguerite they used to call her at school. The oddball, the nut! But not stupid.

“We all do at times,” he said, smiling generously. “Well, when shall we see each other? Do you want to call me when you get back?” He still had the black book poised in his hand.

“No,” she said, defeated (down, down the rabbit hole—would the fall never end?). “I’ll be back for Thursday.”

Awkwardly she struggled into her coat. He never helped.

They shook hands amicably at the door and said arrivederci nice as pie.

The next day Marguerite took the morning train up to Florence. It cost her 5,515 lire. Alberto would join her at the hotel, for he was coming on a later train with some of the other critics and editors who met annually to discuss entries for the literary prize that they judged.

Only Dr. Verdile knew of her divorce plans. She had taken off the gold wedding band and begun to wear again a turquoise ring from long ago, but people hadn’t noticed, or if they had, didn’t give it any importance. After all, she and Alberto were still at the same address, so who could tell besides Dr. V., and sometimes Alberto, what was going on?

Analysis had intensified everything. She had always been aware of her cover-up—that business receptionist who faced the outside and tried to be pleasing; who hazarded meeting and speaking and giving the correct responses; who engaged in memorized, meaningless routines of life. Now she was another step removed, watching herself watch the receptionist; thinking it was time to fire her and her goddam personality smile.