I’d go out, read, or drive out of the city, and then eat alone in some restaurant where no one knew me. In the afternoon I’d go to the cinema and then wander around Feltrinelli’s bookshop. Then back home in the evening to read. At night I’d often wander the streets again, or take another trip to the cinema. It was on a Sunday morning-a cold, beautiful day, lit by a blinding sun, three days before the start of the appeal hearing - that I finally couldn’t help myself and phoned Natsu. “Guido!” “Hi. I wanted to—” “I’m pleased you called me. I’d like to see you.” I’ve always envied the naturalness of some people - some women mostly - who can openly say what they think and what they want. I’ve never been able to do that. I’ve always felt inadequate. Like an intruder at a feast where everyone else knows how to behave. “So would I. Very much.” There followed a few moments’ silence. She was probably thinking, quite rightly, that if I wanted to see her, and had actually called her, I could at least make an effort and suggest something.
