… Ah, beasts, beasts, beasts! How triumphantly they rose up on their hind legs, shouting and lurching, about to snatch up the sop of those charlatan organizers!

This image pleased him, and comforted him somewhat. But, looking down at his hands … Oh, God, the papers, where were the papers he had taken with him when he left home? The guest list … the acceptances? They had been torn from his hands, or he had lost them in the crush. How could he remember everyone he had invited? Those who had accepted or excused themselves from participating in the banquet? And among the acceptances, one dear to him, really precious, one that he had wanted to show Signora Barmis and then get framed to hang in his room: the one from Maurizio Gueli, the Maestro, sent from Monteporzio, handwritten. . . . That one lost as well! Ah, Gueli’s autograph, there, trampled under the filthy feet of those brutes…. Attilio Raceni felt all worked up again. How disgusting to be living in times of such horrid barbarity masquerading as civility!

With the proud bearing and mien of an indignant eagle, he was already on Via Sistina near the descent of Via Capo le Case. Dora Barmis lived there alone in four small, dark rooms with low ceilings.


3


Dora Barmis enjoyed letting everyone think she was extremely poor, however many her cosmetics, galas, and charmingly capricious gowns. The little sitting room that also served as a writing room, the alcove, the dining room, and entry hall were, like the owner, strangely but certainly not at all poorly outfitted.

Separated for years from a husband no one had ever known, dark and agile, with eyes lightly touched up, her voice a little hoarse, she clearly declared her knowledge of life with her looks and smiles, with every movement of her body. She knew the throbs of heart and nerves, the art of pleasing, of awakening, of arousing the most refined and vehement male desires that made her laugh loudly when she saw them flame in the eyes of the man she was talking to. But she laughed even louder at seeing certain eyes grow dreamy as if from the promise of a lasting sentiment.

Attilio Raceni found her in the little sitting room near a small nickel-plated iron desk decorated with arabesques. She was engrossed in reading, wearing a low-necked Japanese gown.

“Poor Attilio! Poor Attilio!” she said after roaring with laughter at his account of the disagreeable adventure. “Sit down. What can I give you to soothe your troubled spirit?”

She looked at him with a kindly mocking air, winking an eye and cocking her head on her provocative bare neck.

“Nothing? Nothing at all? Anyway, you know? You look nice this way … a bit untidy. I’ve always told you, darling: a nuance of brutality would do wonders! Too languid and . . . must I say it? Your elegance has been for some time a little … a little démodée. For example, I don’t like the gesture you made just now as you sat down.”

“What gesture?” asked Raceni, who didn’t know he had made one.

“Pulling your lapels this way and that … And put that hand down! Always in your hair. We know it’s beautiful!”

“Please, Dora!” Raceni snorted. “I’m frazzled!”

Dora Barmis broke into laughter again, placing her hands on the desk and leaning backward. “The banquet?” Then she said, “Are you serious? While my proletarian brothers are protesting . . .”

“Don’t joke, please, or I’m leaving!” Raceni threatened.

Dora Barmis got to her feet. “But I’m serious, darling! I wouldn’t worry myself so much if I were you. Silvia Roncella . . .