Then everything returned to the way it was before. He picked up his glasses from the bedside table, took off the condom with a tissue and threw it away, calmlydressed, caressed my head, and when we got into the car, we talked about bin Laden and Bush as if nothing had happened.

25 October 2001

Roberto calls me often. He says hearing me fills him with joy and the desire to make love. He says the latter in a low voice, partly because he doesn't want to be heard, partly because he's embarrassed to admit it. I tell him that I feel the same way, that I often think about him when I touch myself. It isn't true, Diary. I say it only to stroke his ego; he's full of himself. He's forever saying, "I know I'm a good lover. Women really like me."

He's an arrogant angel, he's irresistible. His image hounds me during the day, but I think of him more as the polite young man than as the passionate lover. And when he is transformed, he makes me smile: I think he knows quite well how to maintain his equilibrium, how to be different people at different times. I, in contrast, am always the same, always identical. My passion is everywhere, so is my cunning.

1 December 2001

I told him my birthday is the day after tomorrow, and he exclaimed, "Great. Then we'll have to celebrate in an appropriate fashion."

I smiled and said, "Robi, we just celebrated yesterday. Aren't you satisfied?"

"Uh, no. I meant your birthday should be special. You know Pino, don't you?"

"Yes, of course," I replied.

"Do you like him?"

Worried about saying something that would distance him from me, I hesitated a little, then decided to tell the truth: "Yes, quite a lot."

"Perfect. I'll come to pick you up the day after tomorrow."

"OK." I shut my phone, curious about this strange excitement of his. I trust him.

3 December 2001

4:30 A.M.

My sixteenth birthday. I want to stop right here and not go any further. At sixteen I'm mistress of my actions, but also the victim of chance and unpredictability.