When Vincenzo burst in, Rodolfo was lying naked on the bed and savouring one of those rare moments when, to quote a German poet recently cited by Professor Ugo, ‘a happiness falls’. What had he done to deserve this? The answer appeared to be nothing. At the advanced age of twenty-three, Rodolfo was reluctantly coming to terms with the fact that he was not one of life’s natural achievers, a doer of deeds, attainer of goals and winner of women. If he had won Flavia, for the moment at least, it was only because she had fallen into his hands. There was nothing wrong with his intellect, but when it came to everything else, he seemed to be an under-motivated if well-meaning lightweight who had always taken, and no doubt always would take, the path of least resistance.

Ahappiness had fallen, and he had been fortunate enough to be there to catch it, but you couldn’t count on such luck indefinitely. Normally what fell broke, or broke you if you were standing unawares beneath. Rodolfo’s father had continually striven to remind his son of such basic facts, in a weary but dutiful tone of voice which suggested-indeed, almost proudly advertised-that while he had accepted the utter futility of any such attempt, he would not have it said of him that he had shirked his paternal responsibilities.

The thought of his father had brought to mind, by natural degrees of progression, the family home, the little market town, and the whole intimately immanent landscape of his youth. Puglia! So when Vincenzo burst in, resembling an Errol Flynn lookalike after a particularly hard night’s carousing, his flatmate felt naked in more ways than one.

‘Siamo in due,’ he hissed angrily, yanking the covers up over Flavia’s torso and his own genitals.