We sat there for a few seconds, looking at one another. There was something more complex than shyness in the man’s eyes. It was as if he were accustomed to fear, and he had disciplined himself to control that fear, in the knowledge that it would always be with him, waiting. I think my eyes displayed astonishment. I tried to remember if I’d ever read anything by Valery. I wasn’t sure.

“I thought that line might help you, considering what you just said. About change. I don’t know if other people feel this way, but I like to share the things I read. When I repeat a line that I’ve read, or an idea, or a verse, I sort of feel a little as if I were the author. I love that.”

He said the last few words almost as if he were apologizing. As if he had realized that he might have been a little pushy. I hastened to reassure him.

“Thanks very much. I’ve done the same thing since I was a boy. But I don’t think I could have described it so clearly and so well.”

Before I got out of the car, I shook hands with him. As I was heading off for my appointment, I knew I would rather have stayed there, talking about books and other things. I was at least an hour early. I knew every detail of the case, and there was no need to go over my papers, so I decided to go for a walk. I crossed the Tiber, making my way over the Ponte Cavour. The river water was greenish yellow, glittering with quicksilver flashes of light, a delight to behold. There weren’t many people around, only the occasional muffled sounds of cars and faint voices-background noises. I had the powerful and wonderfully irrational impression that this almost complete silence had been imposed for my own personal enjoyment. Someone said that moments of happiness take us by surprise and sometimes-often-go completely unnoticed. We only realize that we were happy afterward, which is pretty stupid. As I was walking toward the Ara Pacis, a memory from many years ago came to me.