‘Mattioli, would you remain here?’ the professor remarked casually as the rest of the class left the seminar room.

He caught the flash of anxiety in the young man’s eyes. He had intended that it should be there. It was part of the charm and style of Edgardo Ugo’s post-1968 faded leftist persona that he always addressed his graduate students in the familiar tu verbal form, and insisted that they do the same to him. This time, however, he had used the impersonal, distancing lei. That, and the use of Rodolfo’s surname, made the message quite clear.

‘Sit down, please.’

Ugo gathered up his belongings and then proceeded to take some considerable time arranging them in his evidently expensive, but of course artisanal rather than designer, briefcase before paying any further attention to the student.

‘You’re a bright lad, Mattioli, so I’m sure you’ll understand that after that last outburst I can no longer admit you to my seminars. There’s nothing personal about this. Indeed, I find it painful in many ways. But to do otherwise would be a dereliction of my duty to the other members of the class. They have understood and accepted the principles of the course, and are attending these classes, often at considerable personal or familial financial sacrifice, in the hopes of bettering themselves and making a serious contribution to this academic discipline. They are certainly not here to listen to cheap jokes and mocking asides from someone who, despite his evident intellectual capacities, is at heart nothing but a farceur.’

The boy stared back with his unblinking black eyes, as expressionless as the muzzles of a double-barrelled shotgun, but said nothing. Typically southern, thought Ugo. He knows that there’s been a war, that he lost, and that there’s nothing to talk about. Later he might come round with a knife and cut my throat, but he’s not going to humiliate himself further by pointless protests and weak entreaties.