After dinner, we both felt like going out. We decided to go to a venue that had opened a few months before. A refurbished former factory, where you could eat, drink, read a book or a newspaper, or play a game. Best of all, there was a tiny cinema where they showed old films, one after the other, from midnight till dawn.

You could go there at any hour of the night and you’d always find customers. To me, it was like a kind of outpost where you could escape the normal rhythms of everyday life. Day/work/going out/people. Night/ home/rest/solitude.

The cinema in particular was fantastic. My ideal kind of cinema.

There were about fifty seats, you were allowed to talk, you could move around, you could drink. Sometimes, between one film and the next, they served spaghetti, or, just before dawn, caffe latte in big cups without handles, and Nutella croissants.

I didn’t have to be in court the next morning, which meant I could take things a bit easier. Margherita worked the hours she chose. So we got dressed and went out, both in a good mood.

The place was called Magazzini d’Oltremare. We got there just after eleven, and as usual there were people there, even though it was the middle of the week. Many of those sitting at the tables I knew by sight. Pretty much the kind of people you see in particular venues, at particular concerts or parties. Pretty much like me.

I tried to maintain a stance of ironic detachment from the people who went to these places – more or less on the left, more or less intellectual, more or less comfortably off, more or less over thirty and under fifty (actually, there were also a few over fifty) – but I continued to go there myself. Just like everyone else.