"No, not tomorrow, I have school. Let's meet Friday-the day of the strike. Where?"

"In front of the university cafeteria at 10:30."

"I'll be there."

"Ciao, then, till Friday."

"Till Friday. Un bacio."

14 October 2001 5:30 P.M.

As usual I arrived incredibly early. The weather has been the same for four days, an incredible monotony.

From the cafeteria came the smell of garlic, and from where I stood I could hear the cooks making a racket with the pots and badmouthing some coworkers. A few students passed by and winked at me; I pretended not to see them. I was more attentive to the cooks' conversation than my thoughts. I was calm, not in the least nervous; I let myself be swept away by the external world, and I didn't pay much attention to me.

He arrived in his yellow car, wrapped up in the most exaggerated way, with an enormous scarf covering half of his face, leaving only his glasses uncovered.

"So I won't be recognized, you know how it is… my girlfriend. We'll use the back roads," he said once

I'd gotten into the car. "It'll take a bit longer, but at least there won't be any risk."

The rain beat harder on the windshield; I thought it might shatter. We were headed for his summer home on the slopes of Etna, outside the city. The brown, withered branches of the trees tore tiny cracks in the cloudy sky; flocks of birds flew laboriously through the dense rainfall, yearning to reach some warmer place. I too wanted to soar in order to reach a warmer spot. Yet I felt no yearning: it seemed as if I were leaving home to start a new job that was far from exciting-a dutiful, laborious job.

"Open the glove compartment. There should be some CDs."

I found a couple and chose Carlos Santana.

We talked about my school and his university, then about us.

"I don't want you to think badly of me," I said.

"Are you joking? That would be like thinking badly of myself. We're both doing the same thing, in the same way. For me it might be even more dishonorable, since I'm spoken for. But you see, she-"