Underneath the portico on the little square I saw the shop of the old woman who sold herbs; now there was a thin little man, but the bags of seeds and the bunches of herbs were the same. On summer afternoons the shop used to give off a pungent smell of countryside and spices. Farther down the bombs had destroyed an alley. Who knows what's become of Carlotta, the girls, Slim? Or of Pia's children? If the bombs had flattened the whole district, it would have been easier to face my memories. I went down the forbidden alley, passed the tiled doorways of the brothels. How many times had we run by those doorways? The afternoon I stared at a soldier who came out with a dark look... what had got into me? And by the time I was old enough to dare to discuss such things (and the district had begun to make me less afraid than angry and disgusted), I was going to my shop in another part of town and had friends and knew all about it because I was working.

I arrived in the Via della Basilica and didn't have the courage. I passed in front of that courtyard and caught a glimpse of the low vaulting of a second-story bedroom and of balconies. I was already in the Via Milano; impossible to go back. The mattress maker looked at me from his doorway.

I told Morelli something of all this at the height of the party when it was nearly morning and one kept on drinking and talking just to hold out a little longer. I said: "Morelli, these people dancing and getting drunk are well-born. They've had butlers, nurses, maids. They've had country vacations, all kinds of protection. Good for them. Do you think that any of them could have started from nothing—from a courtyard the size of a grave—and got to this party?"

And Morelli patted my arm and said: "Cheers. We arrived. If necessary we'll even get home."

"It's easy," I said, "for the wives and daughters of wealthy families to dress the way they're dressed. They've only to ask. They don't even have to sleep around. Give you my word, I'd rather dress real whores. At least they know what work is."

"Do whores still dress?" Morelli said.

We had eaten and danced. We had met many people. Morelli always had someone at his shoulder who was saying loudly: "Be seeing you." I recognized some names and faces of people who had been in our fitting room in Rome. I recognized some gowns: a countess wore one with a peplum which we had designed and which I myself had sent several days before. A little woman in ruffles even gave me a tiny smile; her escort turned around; I recognized him, too; they had been married the year before in Rome. He bowed deeply and gravely in recognition—he was a tall, blond diplomat—then he was jerked away: I suppose his wife brought him to his senses by reminding him that I was the dressmaker. That was when my blood began to boil. Then came a collection for the blind: a man in a dinner jacket and a red paper hat made a comic speech about the blind and deaf, and two blindfolded women ran around the room grabbing men who, after paying, could kiss them. Morelli paid. Then the orchestra began playing again and some groups got noisy, singing and chasing one another.