Enough said. With Andrea I continued along the miserable path that I had taken in Naples three months before. And now I will get to the main issue. One evening he suggests... But first let me tell you that Sanserra didn't know the person I must now tell you about; he had only heard of her from others. He suggests, as I was saying, that I go meet a — this is the way he expresses himself— a sort of special attraction. He spoke to me about... I can't tell you exactly what he said; I only recall the visual impression his words made on me: a dark room with a large bed at the foot of which there was a screen; a girl wrapped in a sheet like a ghost; behind the screen an elderly woman, the girl's aunt, who sat knitting by a small round table; on the table a lamp that projected onto the wall, the enlarged shadow of the old woman with her agile hands in motion. The girl did not speak and hardly let you see her face; instead, it was her aunt who did the talking, recounting to the few faithful clients a world of miseries: her niece was engaged to an outstanding young man who had a well-paying job in northern Italy; their marriage had been called off on account of the dowry; there had been a dowry, but a family tragedy had swallowed it up. They had to make it up, and in a very short time, before the outstanding young man found out. "On the door of that room," concluded Andrea Sanserra, "one could write 'heartache'."

Naturally, I was tempted. And so Andrea and I planned to meet the following evening at eight thirty, just outside Porta del Popolo. He lives on Via Flaminia. The house of the two women is on Via Laurina; I no longer remember the number.

It was a Saturday night, and it was raining. Via Flaminia stretched out directly in front of us. It was muddy and illuminated here and there by streetlamps whose light bounced about and vanished under the gusts of wind that shook the dark, rain-pelted trees of Villa Borghese, behind me. Because of the terrible weather, I thought that he would not show up, and yet I could not make up my mind whether or not to leave, and remained there perplexed, gazing at the streams of water falling from all around the edge of my umbrella. Should I go to Via Laurina by myself? No, no... A profound sensation of nausea for the life I had been leading during the past three months won me over at that point. I felt ashamed of myself, abandoned by my companion there on the road to vice. I thought that Andrea probably had gone to spend the evening in an honest house, not suspecting that I was so corrupt as to keep our appointment on such a dreadful evening. And yet, that's not it, I thought. More than being corrupt, I'm miserable. Where could I go now? And there came to mind the happy peaceful evenings spent with my loved one beside me, my former life, her little house. Oh, Tuda! Tuda! All of a sudden, out of the central arch of that city gate there appeared an old man, hunched over, with a cloak reaching down to his ankles. He held up an old tattered umbrella with both hands. He was going down Via Flaminia, almost as if swept along by the wind. I focus my eyes on him... A chill runs through my entire body. Mr.