

Elena Genero Santoro

A mistake of youth

translations from Italian by  
Carmelo Massimo Tidona

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A mistake of youth

Copyright © 2013 Zerounoundici Editions   
ISBN: 978-88-6578-307-8  
Cover Image: Shutterstock.com

This novel is a work of imagination, any reference to existing events or living people is to be considered purely accidental.

Dedicated to Martin "Eddie" Grossman

1.

London

"Have you checked your blood pressure today," asked Patrick to Futura, even before greeting her, as he came home.

Patrick was very apprehensive. The first pregnancy of his wife had ended with an emergency cesarean after an eclampsia, and the fact that both mother and daughter survived had been a mere accident. And now that she was at the end of the second pregnancy, he was determined not to repeat the experience, so he tried to keep everything under control.

"Two times already, one hundred and fifteen and seventy. Can't be better than this!" she replied without fuss, keeping to knit while sitting in her armchair. By now she had been damming the anxiety of her husband in many ways for months. "And I have not the slightest hint of a headache," she pointed out to complete the narration.

Patrick breathed a sigh of relief. Then he took off his coat and shoes. He placed a kiss on his wife's lips and one on her belly, after crouching beside her. Hooray. Another day ended with a positive balance.

"How's going with the sweater you're knitting?"

"Fine, I think. I'm at a good point. I believe I'll finish it soon," said Futura, without looking up.

Patrick smiled happily, looking around. His beloved wife. Their sweet first daughter. Their new house. Another daughter on the way. And a good job. Finally everything was going properly. Everything was under control.

"Sometimes I think we are blessed by God. It's all so fabulous now. If Emma comes into the world without any problems, we will truly have to say 'Thank you' to the One above for everything we have."

Futura stopped knitting and looked up.

"Yes, God should be thanked, of course. But, for once, don't be so modest. God helped us, but we did our part as well. We always walked the line. When we were students we worked hard. We didn't lose time partying, we didn't spend years drinking, we went straight to the goal. Then we started working immediately, seriously. And concerning our relationship, we never allowed pride to kill our love. When we had a crisis, we always talked about it, we didn't let ourselves be tempted by solutions as easy as misleading and, in the end, we always came out of it. And what about your disease? You live with hemophilia since you were born, you have a procedure to follow every time you get a scratch. But you don't get discouraged and you try not to weigh me down with it, because you are determined and admirable and I could not wish for anything more than a man like you in my life. So if now we have created a piece of happiness of our own, we might as well take a little merit for it. Let's say it, we've been good. Lucky, blessed by God, but also good. Don't you think?"

Patrick thought for a moment about it. Maybe Futura had a point. Basically, you reap what you sow, and they both had devoted their lives to a serious and thorough behavior. Their marriage had survived some dark periods, but the sun had come back again, both because their love had never ceased, and because of their lifestyle choices. Maybe his wife was right, actually. What they had built was not only by chance, or luck, but also due to their attitude to a healthy and tidy living.

That thought seemed reassuring to him. It made him suppose to have a better control over his existence. Over the years, Patrick had learned that such control would never be complete, that every now and then haemophilia would still play some dirty trick, but now all that troubled him less than before. What mattered were the things he loved, and he had build that love on solid foundations. He loved his wife with all his heart and she loved him the same way. He had never cheated on her, and was not going to. He loved their eldest daughter and soon he would become a father again. He did not want anything more than what he had, and he was happy.

2.

London

The injection of confidence she had just administered to Patrick was not enough to assuage her own unexpressed anxieties. It was true, they had moved fine up to that point, why not acknowledge that? Why not cherish the good there had been, so that also her husband, always worried about her pregnancy, could find a hint of satisfaction? But having made well-aimed choices so far, mostly, did not make them immune from the risk of making wrong ones in the near future. Because if Patrick was distressed about the physiology of that second gestation, Futura could not help wondering about what would happen next, post-partum.

And her concerns had a main protagonist: their firstborn, Marina. What would happen after Emma's birth? Would her little princess be jealous? Would she feel set aside? The relationship Futura had with her first daughter had been hitherto exclusive, symbiotic. Would it stay like that? Or would the newborn upset all balances? And what could she, as a mother, do?

These thoughts tormented her. The idea of not being able to balance her love between her daughters bothered her. How would she manage that? Every so often she even talked about it with her husband, but he did not seem worried at all. He tenderly caressed her cheek and reassured her, saying, "You'll be very good, as usual. You'll manage it all perfectly!"

And she tormented herself more than before, further burdened by the expectations of her husband.

And then there was Patrick. Their relationship was fine and she was still fully in love with him. All the more so now that she was about to make a father of him for the second time. Yet she would never swear on relationships between two people, in general. Too many couples, married or otherwise, had split around them, and that made her slightly concerned.

Useless to mention Giovanni, her shy and lanky brother. He had been engaged to Manuela, a spoiled and whimsy girl, and the end of their relationship had not been a surprise to anyone. It had been just the chronicle of a disaster foretold.

But what about Elettra and the end of her story with Ted?

Elettra, a woman her age, had officially been her best friend for more than a decade, and, a significant detail, even though she wasn't her blood relative, she shared with her two half-brother; Giovanni, the eldest, and Iago, the younger. This made her see her a bit like a sister.

In truth they had not been seeing each other too frequently in the last few years, because right after graduation Elettra had moved to the U.S. to study, but once there she had met Ted Crawford, a black American of huge size with whom she had started living together. Thus she had remained in the vicinity of New York, where she even gave birth to a little girl, Cindy.

She only rarely came back to Italy for a summer or Christmas holiday. Mostly she remained in her Big Apple and kept in touch through Skype.

The relationship between Elettra and Ted had been a mixed blessing for Futura for a long time. A delight, because she was happy for the new life of her friend. A pain because it had physically stolen her the companion of so many adventures.

But above all, Futura admired Elettra. Settling in such a distant nation, so different from the one you were born in, building yourself a life outside the box, living with a black guy in a world full of prejudices, was not something anyone could do. Between the two of them, who were the same age, Elettra had always been the more mature. There had been a time, just after their teenage years, in which Futura – plump, tormented, insecure, with her not-exactly-feminine look – doubted she would ever find a boyfriend. And while she spent her days cultivating her lack of confidence, the other, without asking for anyone's permission, had started her life as a responsible adult.

Even when the time of procreating had come, Elettra had become pregnant first. Futura kept being the eternal second, and a part of her always suffered that comparison.

And to think that Elettra wasn't particularly pretty. She had been – blonde, with curly hair and fair eyes – at the time of high school. But then, once she landed in America, she had horribly put on weight and she showed no signs of losing any. She had never been even a femme fatale either. She had always had a quite sporty, informal look. When she was young she was not shapely, but in fact, quite flat on the front. Now that she was obese, she was also massive enough to keep hiding her curves.

Yet boys liked her. She was brisk and practical and people – including Futura – perceived this as reassuring. When there was Elettra, surely a solution would come out. That was why Futura told her everything.

Yet, a person so wise and judicious, now had split from her partner, in spite of having a very little daughter. What could have happened? Elettra had not dwelt much about it on Skype. She had hinted, however, that Ted had gone out of his mind, that he had been choking her with his jealousy.

Whatever had happened, at any rate, Futura was going to know soon in detail. Elettra was about to join her in London with little Cindy, to be close to her before the birth and enjoy a period of reflection, in peace. And she was happy for this.

3.

Turin

Breaking a marriage was neither a simple affair, nor immediate. Breaking up after having lived together for more than a year was not easy. Although the ex-wife in question was an absolutely unsuitable person to the share the rest of her life with the man concerned. She still remained the shattered dream haunting Giovanni every night.

And to think that it had been him to want the separation, to decide to cut short their lopsided relationship. Manuela would never have done that. She would have kept nagging him to death, rather than renounce to her status of married woman. And that was just what had caused the crisis of poor Giovanni; his wife loved her ambitions more than she loved him, pursuing her desire of glory at the expense of everything else. She did not do that on purpose, in truth. Manuela had a pure heart, after all. She wasn't even aware of her own self-centeredness. But in fact, if she was pursuing a personal goal, which happened every time, everything else fell on the background, including her husband.

And so Giovanni had wrapped his few things and left, though reluctantly, because actually he had never wanted to. He was in love with Manuela. It had been just her great determination to enchant him, her iron will to get everything she desired. Therefore he, shy and clumsy from birth, had always idealized her. From the beginning he had considered her superior to him. But doing so had laid the foundation for the huge underlying misunderstanding that had always characterized their relationship; he had to treat her like a queen, she would spend her time being admired without concern for the needs of her husband. It had been like that as long as Giovanni could stand it. But once he had reached the point where a little support from his wife would have been a comfort, that clay giant that was their marriage had collapsed miserably. Giovanni hadn't made it. He couldn't always be strong for both. Because Manuela was strong-willed when it came to her ambitions, but she was not the kind of woman who could be of help to anyone.

So Giovanni had pulled back. He had imagined himself about ten years from that moment, unhappy and unsatisfied, lacking for love. He wanted someone who loved him, he wanted a partner who would take care of him, and Manuela would never learn how to do that.

But leaving everything behind was not easy. Meanwhile, he missed the daily life shared with her until then, however miserable and neglected it had been - Manuela had never wasted time cooking for him – more than he would ever imagine. Waking up in the morning alone, in his new studio apartment – a hovel he had rented for three hundred Euros per month – weighed like a boulder over him. Dining in front of the TV with some jellied meat, a salad with tuna and spelt, and the grand finale, canned peas heated in the microwave, and voila, the meal was served – he who had grown up in a farm run by his mother, he who had been brought up in accordance with the sacred chrism of slow food – was one of the most depressing aspects of the whole thing. Because as scarce as the culinary performances of Manuela were – she'd always cared a lot for her weight – an unseasoned salad and a bland pasta shared were still better than a pre-cooked chickpea soup purchased at the convenience store downstairs, which provided his daily food for astronomical prices.

Basically, Giovanni suffered that new loneliness. He had always been a silent, lonely, introverted man, and now that he had grown accustomed to having company he found that new isolation too heavy a burden. If at least he had had friends, if he had been accustomed to hang out in the evening, to come up with diversions or new activities... Instead, depressed and off as he was, he did nothing but sit holed up in his house grumbling, feeling helpless and hopeless. Probably he would grow old like that, sad and alone, and this did not entice him.

And yet, there was another reason why turning the page was at least difficult to him. Manuela called him every day, or nearly so. She had not accepted the new situation at all. Indeed, she even seemed not to have taken it seriously. And when the phone rang, he couldn't help but answer.

4.

Los Angeles

Sooner or later it happened to everyone, more or less. And this time it was his turn. The latest film in which he had starred was a terrible flop. Worse than a flop, indeed, a real tragedy. Flop would have been some full feature film earning not so much at the box office. But his was something worse, it was a real disaster. One of the worst films of the last year, one of those scoring negative records. Fierce critics about it abounded, and there were already talks of a Razzie Awards. Because when you have to do with alien stories you must be extremely careful. They can come out as real masterpieces, but also as rubbish bordering on the ridiculous. And "Invasion", undoubtedly, belonged to the second category.

Sooner or later it happened to everyone, but now that it had happened to him, it was burning like crazy. So Mac wandered around the room of the apartment he shared with Connie, as nervous as a caged beast. He kept fiddling with those magazines in his hands, the ones giving merciless judgments, and it seemed to him that they burned like hot potatoes. Objectively, he was not used to so many negative opinions all at once. His career was going well and he was at the peak of success. Until then he had always made everything right. All the films in which he had appeared had been well-received. Even that cloying romantic comedy, "A Home for Maggie," about which he had had a thousand hesitations, had been assessed positively both by industry experts and the general public. But "Invasion" had seemed so unlikely as to touch absurdity, the plot had neither coherence nor logic, and some scenes had even seemed naive. In short, the film was a real masterpiece of unintentional comedy. It would go down in history for the less desirable reasons. And he, Julian MacInnes, aka Julian MacGregor, Mac for his friends, still wondered how he could have let himself be involved in so much horror. Now his large face ridiculously appeared on all the posters that advertised the premiere, and he wanted to die of embarrassment.

But how had that story begun? What had he liked of that script? Why had there been a time when that role had seemed good to the point of accepting it? And to say that Mac selected personally and with care every possible job. His career was at its peak, he was a most wanted actor. He did not need to beg for roles in B-list films. He could choose the best. Yet he had ended up in that mess. What other roles had he denied to follow that project? He tried to make a mental account of the proposals he had received. He had refused the part of a homosexual politician who died in the sixties fighting for civil rights in a production focusing on his life. Mac was straight and the idea of impersonating an effeminate man didn't entice him. Being the hero in action movies suited him better. And to think that an actor should put himself to the test with any type of character. Maybe he would have fraternized with that gay paladin more than he had supposed. But now it was gone. And, by the way, that historical movie was booming at the box office.

Then there had been another proposal for one of those sci-comics where reality and parallel dream worlds mingled from the first to the last frame, following Matrix model. But he had assumed that one Matrix, with its sequels, was more than enough, and had declined. It would have been terrible to propose the copy of another work. Instead, as much as it tasted like a déjà vu, that movie was being a triumph as well.

And then what else had he declined? A romantic comedy in which he would have played along with an actress who was also an old flame of his, and kiss her often. Why had he declined? Given that romanticism in general wasn't for him, Connie, who was his girlfriend as well as his agent, had advised him against accepting it. And now that silly meatloaf was faring quite well in theaters.

Instead, "Invasion" was a disaster, a cataclysm, a catastrophe. If it went on like that, it risked to be prematurely withdrawn from theaters. Which perhaps might not be a bad thing, at least everyone would forget it soon.

And to think that it had been right another movie about aliens, "New War of Independence", to launch him in the firmament of Hollywood stars, just a few years earlier. That one had been projected around the whole world, with a global success. Everyone had loved and appreciated "New War of Independence." Good plot, amazing special effects, great dialogues. So much so that it had even been nominated for Oscars, for Best Director and Best Screenplay. And now, "Invasion", instead, was likely to undermine his career.

The first doubt on that production had occurred while starting to film the first scene. There was less organization than he would have expected, and even the most dramatic scenes had been planned trying not to spend even a single dollar more than needed. At some point Mac had even been tempted to terminate the contract, something was not working properly, but then he had held on, even encouraged by Connie, telling himself that, at the end of it all, at the time of editing, the right emphasis would be given to the crucial moments of the narration. Instead, in the end, several of scenes had been cut, so the plot got ridden with inconsistencies and holes. In short, everything that could be done to make that damn movie grotesque had been done. And now Mac was crying on the end result.

"Don't break down like this," said Connie, trying to lay a hand on his shoulder. "Accidents happen. Now we have to think about the next film. And you have to consider that the media have not thrown themselves against you, your acting received a positive rating all the same!"

"Leave me alone," he snapped, intractable and rude. "You don't know what you're saying. I'm going out. I can't stay another minute in this hole of a house."

Mac went out, slamming the door, leaving poor Connie appalled and embittered.

5.

Cristini

He had not started himself the story with Fabiana. She had come forward, strongly somehow, not to say arrogantly. She had chased him in the noise of the disco, followed him, invited him to dance under the psychedelic lights. She had written her number on his forearm and, shouting to be heard, had demanded the same. Then, however, she had not waited for him to look for her. She had already popped up the following day, early in the afternoon, to ask him if he wanted to meet her later. Something definitely more relaxed, an ice cream at Agrisapori in Pralormo, only the two of them, where they would chat a bit between sips of milkshake. It was then that Iago had started to really look at her. Fabiana was pretty, with brown, smooth, long hair with a chopped haircut. Her eyes were brown too, her skin pale. Aesthetically, therefore, nothing to say. And anyway she was nice, had a cheerful look, maybe even too much, maybe even a little over the top, but that day she had talked a lot to him, telling him a lot of things, and Iago had been listening almost in silence. The previous night, after the disco, he had smoked too much joints so to be able to sleep, and he had yet to get rid of their effects.

After that, he could not say how it had started. Fabiana invited him and he seconded her. He could find no compelling reasons to decline. Probably because there were none. And so, in the end, they had become an item. At some point, after yet another kiss, in an afternoon on the hill of Turin, at the Basilica of Superga from where you could see the entire city, she had asked, "So, in the end, are we a couple or not?"

He wondered if he could have declined. If, after they had met regularly in the last two weeks, after they had tasted each other quite good in the car, after yet another bike ride in which she had wrapped around him, it would make sense to say no. They were not an item, they had just hung around a bit, because she had hunted him and he, who had been single for a few months, had appreciated some female warmth. But that didn't mean that a story had begun. That did not imply any commitment on his part.

"Well, yes, I'd say so..." he had answered, without looking in her eyes, hesitantly fiddling with her hands, that she had woven to his.

"Yes," she had cheered, with the typical enthusiasm of twenty years old girls, jumping at his neck for a joyful hug as he was still stiff as a salami, assessing the new mess he had just put himself into.

In the next days he had reasons to change his mind. That simple word, "Couple," had pushed Fabiana to give him a whole new availability. Up to that time, indeed, they hadn't yet had full intercourse, she hadn't even allowed him to go down that much, nothing more than a little groping. A serious girl, she was.

But after that kind of extorted vow, after that "Couple", they had finally made love.

For a while, everything had gone smoothly. Iago had appreciated and savored the joys of having a girlfriend, even if he hadn't exactly chosen her, at the beginning, and even if he had found himself involved in a story of which he almost felt like a spectator.

Gradually, however, he had grown fond of her, so cute, so sweet, so expansive.

But then, after a while, something had changed, and the truth had been revealed in all its ugliness. Fabiana was a jealous girlfriend.

6.

London

"Hey, you look great! Let me see," Elettra had begun, talking about Futura, once she got into the house. "What a beautiful belly and you, my love, you're wonderful!"

Later Futura would think about that statement that sounded like a compliment and continued with, "Instead my face is ruined, my eyes are always sunk, these bags don't want to go away. It's because of all the stress I can't get rid of, it just doesn't leave me. The truth is that I've really gone crazy, this separation destroyed me, look at me, I'm no longer myself."

Futura had observed and, then and there, she had not noticed anything different, she just looked a little more tired than normal, for which the jet lag was to be blamed as well. Her extra pounds were all still there, obviously the end of her love story had exhausted her, but not enough to make her lose weight.

Actually, though, something had changed. Elettra wanted to talk, to tell, and had a lot more to say than she had ever had before. So much she had been brief and dismissive on Skype in the previous days, months and years, so now, on the contrary, she could no longer constrain herself.

And obviously it was about Ted. The same Ted that only a few months before had always been the subject of limitless praise. So much so that it seemed Elettra wasn't even talking about the same person. How could it be that the man who had been so lovely, a fairy tale prince, so thoughtful, so kind, so gentle, so nice, had suddenly become a raving madman that choked her and did not let her live? What had happened in the meantime?

Futura could find no explanation for it. Yet, if Elettra made some statements, surely she knew what she was talking about. She had lived in that apartment in New York, not anyone else. So she had to be listened to, not judged. And Futura, as a friend, did not back away from her supporting role at such a delicate time. In return she received a mighty hand of help at home. Because Elettra was energetic, capable of washing dishes and coordinate a game between Marina and Cindy at the same time.

"Who would have thought ten years ago that our daughters would speak to each other in English?" she commented in the meantime.

Meanwhile Futura kept knitting, enjoying her belly and watching her best friend, with a mixture of admiration and apprehension. Elettra, who strongly reacted to the unfortunate cases of life. Elettra, who needed to vent years of pent-up frustration.

And it was at dinner that she usually gave her best. After laying the table for everyone and feeding both children, after having made certain she had her audience, she started the show more or less the same way every night. She begun with a sharp complaint, like, "This was a dish Ted didn't like at all." Then she regularly added, "Ah, but I really don't want to talk about it."

And a minute later, in full contradiction with such a debut, the tirade started. "And for years I've even given up eating what I like, just to make him happy. I completely barbarized the way I cook. Because Americans just don't have any form of culture regarding food. They are real savages. They don't have the faintest idea of what quality of food means. They fry everything in the most disgusting fats, and that is the only way they know to make a tasty dish. They are hideous barbarians. Who knows how long it will take me to re-educate my daughter to more refined tastes. She is used to gulp down horrible junk food."

At that point, Patrick threw a puzzled look at Futura, then hazarded a remark, "Are you saying that Ted forbade you to cook Italian style?" It seemed strange to him. At least because Americans generally appreciated Italian cuisine and tried to imitate it every way they could.

"Yes," whimpered Elettra, angrily. "Ted was stifling. Ted was a despot. Ted spent years and years limiting my creativity, quashing any form of individuality in me, at first not openly, then more and more shamelessly and heavily. Because, to be honest, Ted was jealous of my independence, he always tried to alienate me. In time it only got worse. Now I'm really exasperated" she concluded, always the same way, under the condescending, worried eyes of Futura and the more skeptical and incredulous ones of Patrick.

7.

Los Angeles

When Mac returned, tired and disheveled, Connie ran to meet him.

"Honey, where have you been?"

"I took a ride... I had to calm down. But it was even worse. On the bus there were two guys reading a magazine and guffawing like crazy about "Invasion". What a shame. Thank goodness they did not recognize me," he said, taking off the cap he wore pulled down over his face and the dark glasses he usually wore to walk around unnoticed. "You have no idea what it means to be the star of such a debacle. I still wonder how I could let it happen. Now my career is over."

"Oh, what an overstatement. Your career is not over at all. What happened to you happened to a lot of famous actors, and they didn't die, nor have they stopped working. Think about John Travolta, famous, brilliant, envied. Yet he was in the cast of that terrible movie about aliens..."

"Here, in fact, damn aliens... They bring bad luck."

"... but he didn't give up acting for it. Indeed, even a Razzie Award might bring you luck for the future. As long as they talk about it, right?" she said, cheerily.

Mac's eyes narrowed angrily.

"You really don't realize, do you?"

Connie tried to hold on.

"I'm sure that some time from now you'll be laughing about it."

"Laugh? You are completely bonkers," he added, kicking a chair. "It'll takes much more than time."

Connie played her last card, "Then start planning your next project. Look around, find something new to focus on. They sent me a script. Why don't you look at it?" she suggested, trying to be conciliatory.

Mac looked at her with anger.

"I will look at it. From now on I will choose personally and carefully each of my roles."

She looked at him for a moment, ill-concealing her disappointment.

"What about me then? What do you need me for?"

"You've done enough already, Connie. Just arrange events and don't give me any more advice on my career choices."

At that point she resented.

"Are you saying that this flop is all my fault? That it was me who pushed you towards a job doomed to failure?"

He did not answer, but looked down and shut himself into the bathroom.

8.

Turin

There he was again. The phone was ringing and on the other end there was Manuela. Giovanni turned it in his hands, not knowing what to do. He was sure she had nothing important or urgent to say. She would just entertain him with pleasant chatting, as if she were an old friend. He would enchant him with some stupid excuse. There was no reason why his wife needed to call him. She simply didn't want to break up with him, she didn't want to accept that their story was over. She didn't want to let him win.

But, in fact, he had nothing better to do. And, anyway, he felt terribly lonely. In fact, that separation was hard for him to accept as well.

So, in the end, he answered.

"Hello?" he mumbled.

"Hello," she said, chatty and cheerful. "How are you?"

"Not bad. And you, Manu? "

"Oh, well, sure. What were you doing?"

Giovanni thought for a moment. What was he doing? Wasting time with the Playstation.

"Tidying up a bit. Arranging documents. You know, for the office."

"Ah, sure, the office. You know, Nadia is reorganizing the whole study, lately. After she got rid of Paolo, many things have changed, I can't tell if for better or for worse. The fact is that days are stressful, I get up so early in the morning. And then I don't even get a moment to have lunch properly..."

She went on for a quarter of an hour, talking about her daily routine, as if it were something new. Giovanni stood listening to her without opening his mouth. Chatty Manuela. Enthusiast Manuela. The girl he had fallen in love with. For a moment it seemed that everything was back to normal.

"... so you should really see how hard Monica struggles to get by with all those documents, lately."

There was a pause.

"Look, Gio, I was thinking... why don't we meet sometime? We could take a cappuccino, an aperitif, maybe this week. If you want you could come at my office at lunchtime, so we could eat something together."

The days when they had worked in the study of her father and shared a salad came to Giovanni's mind. He was pierced by nostalgia.

"Or we might go to the movies. There's that movie about aliens..."

"You're not saying you want to go see 'Invasion'. It wouldn't be very nice to spend an evening in the company of your ex."

Mac, the protagonist, had had an affair with Manuela, a summer of a few years ago.

"No, I did not mean that," she corrected herself. She actually hadn't even thought about it. "And anyway, I haven't heard good things about it."

"What does it matter now, anyway? Julian MacGregor sure is no concern of mine. And anyway I'm not sure that meeting would be such a smart move. Maybe it's better that we leave things like they are."

"Come on, Gio, what might it be? I'd be glad to see you. At dinner. For a coffee. Whatever you prefer. So we can talk a bit."

Giovanni hesitated for a moment. Manuela was the cause of his suffering and now she was asking him out. Meeting would be dangerous. It would re-open wounds. But in the end what could he lose? He, too, would like it. He felt so alone, so hopeless. Because she was the reason for his discomfort, but also the only person who could soothe his pain.

"Okay," he sighed. "You decide where and when. Everything goes for me."

9.

London

Futura, sitting on her bed, her legs already under the duvet, ready to go to sleep, watched Patrick undressing and putting on his pajamas with a doubtful expression on his face.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

"Elettra. Even tonight she provided us with a list of complaints about Ted. A bit repetitive, to be honest. And if I can tell you what I think..."

"Poor thing," she pitied her, immediately, without giving him time to add anything. "It must be hard to end a story after so many years," she continued with regret.

He sat beside her, over the covers, and rubbed his eyes with two fingers, thoughtfully. He was wondering whether there was a non-argumentative neither aggressive way to express the concept, because he knew how much his wife cared for her friend.

"It's that it seems so strange to me... surreal, I'd say," he ventured.

"Oh, yeah, even I can't believe that Elettra and Ted split up..."

Patrick, in the end, tried to get to the point, "But, in short, how long did they live together? Is it ten years? And Elettra only notices now Ted's food tastes, or how oppressive he can be? She realizes now, after having a daughter with him?"

Futura blinked.

"Well, she even explained that to you. He's always been like that, to some extent, but in the last period he changed, his flaws became more pronounced and their relationship became unsustainable."

Patrick sighed, perplexed.

"It must be as you say. Yet there are things that don't add up. The way she depicts Ted makes no sense to me. That's not how I remember him."

"Well, what do we know, maybe she knows some aspects of his personality better than us, don't you think? Some details, after all, only emerge in the private life of a couple, certainly not in front of friends... How could we know that behind that smiling and cheerful faces wasn't hiding a nauseating pedantic man?"

"Well, maybe. But if really Ted became so unbearable, what was the cause? What does Elettra thinks triggered this change? One doesn't wake up a psycho one morning, if nothing happened to him in the meantime. What do I know, stress on the job. Or something at home. Cindy's birth, to say something. I mean, what made him worse all of a sudden? A decade of routine? Did your friend provide an explanation about that?"

"No," Futura turned up her nose, indignantly. "She didn't examine in my presence the causes of his mutation. Neither she has to. For sure she doesn't have to justify herself to me. If she tells me that Ted has become insufferable all of a sudden, I believe her and I have no reason to doubt what she says."

"Then what did he see? Has he gone crazy?"

"Maybe. Why not?"

"What does that mean? That even us could get out of our minds and suddenly break up?" Patrick asked, somehow dismayed.

Futura then softened.

"Ah, now I see," she said, stroking his face. "You fear that the same thing could happen to us. But it won't. Reassure your desire of always controlling everything..."

"Why? What are the guarantees?" he muttered, in despair. "What makes me certain that, in a few years, you won't start to think that my bad moods are insufferable? Why, if I can tell the truth, I am afraid that all that happened to your friend was falling out of love. Maybe it's not that Ted is different, she's the one who started perceiving his attitudes in a different way. After all what is Elettra doing right now? She's speaking ill of him all the time. She spends the whole day defaming him. But I feel no sorrow for the end of their story in what she says. There are no sentences expressing regret or sadness. And also, tell me, what did she do to try and understand him, when he 'went crazy', so to speak? Did she try to save their relationship?"

"Patrick, my God, I don't know! How can we judge from the outside? Elettra feels bad and I listen to her. That's all."

"Elettra is not feeling that bad, in my opinion. She's not consumed with grief for their break-up, for the sense of defeat that usually comes with it, for the idea of having to start a new life. Elettra just seems angry, and she's also knowingly playing at putting Ted in a bad light in front of us."

"Now you're exaggerating."

"And, which is worse, she even does that in front of their daughter!"

"But Cindy is still small, she doesn't understand," she tried to justify her.

"It does not matter. It's something you don't do."

Futura looked at him, puzzled.

"You really don't like Elettra, these days, do you?"

"Honestly? No. I can't appreciate the way she's behaving."

"Honey, everyone suffers in their own quirky way, you know. We have already talked about this other times. Now this situation sent her out of her mind, probably. And it's not unusual to react with anger toward your partner after a separation."

"Maybe you're right. Maybe it's all normal. Maybe I don't know that much about separations, and frankly, I hope I never will. But, I can't help it, I can't stand her attitude. I know she's your best friend, and for sure I don't want to disrupt the relationship between you, God forbid. But even Ted is, was, a friend of ours and I just can't picture him like the monster she is describing. Sorry about that. This situation makes me a little uncomfortable."

"What should I do then?"

"Nothing. Forget everything I said," he concluded, slipping under the duvet and surrounding Futura with his arms.

"Anyway, don't worry," she whispered, stroking a wayward strand of hair falling over his temples. "It will never end between us. Because you have your bad moods, your insufferable manias, you're definitely a workaholic, but another one like you, so nice, honest and responsible, just can't be found. And for sure I won't let you get away, my dear..."

After hearing those comforting words, Patrick fell asleep happily.

10.

Turin

Iago was starting to get bored. Promises, promises, promises, a preliminary contract signed, then nothing. Julian MacGregor, the Hollywood actor friend of his sister Futura, had purchased the rights to the thriller he had written to make a movie from it. But since then, months had passed and he had not seen anything yet. The project was stopped and there were no prospects. And to think that he had been counting so much on it. He had been planning to leave the University of Literature in which he had been camping for two years with no results, once his novel became a success, once his name had come to the fore. But the problem was that nothing was moving on the horizon. And he felt as if suspended in a limbo. He had been tempted to call Mac, but Futura had strongly advised him against it, "Don't put pressure on him, for goodness sake. It's a very bad time. His latest film, which was supposed to be a worldwide success, was a terrible fiasco, it seems, and he's completely shocked and intractable. And when Mac is like that, it's better to keep your distance from him as much as possible. When this gloomy period is over, he will look for you. That's how he is, moody. He's serious and professional, a great person, a great friend, but when he has a bad day he is insufferable. So, be smart and arm yourself with patience. Getting on his nerves can only be counterproductive."

His sister's words kept echoing in his head but, as logic as they were, they couldn't soothe his nerves. On the contrary, they put in him such a fury that he had scored three goals playing football. Throughout the whole evening he had run up and down the field with a crazy frenzy and now, sweaty and tired, he was looking forward to a nice shower and, later, a hot dog and a beer with his friends. As well as a huge joint before bed.

He was just entering the locker room when his cell phone rang.

"Where are you? What are you doing?"

It was Fabiana.

"Hello Faby. I'm at the football field, I just finished playing. I'm about to shower," he mumbled, as if he felt the need to justify himself.

"Coming to see me afterwards?" she urged him.

"I don't know, Faby, I think not. I have to go home and study."

"Aren't you hanging out with your friends? Aren't you going for pubs with Claudio?" she suggested, suspicious. "I really don't like him, you mustn't go with him. It is a first-class pimp. You must stay away from him."

"No, don't worry. I lather myself up, rinse, wipe and run home. In a few weeks I have an exam, I told you."

"Okay. So you call me when you get there?"

"Sure," he promised.

"Talk to you later then, love. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow night. Kisses, kisses."

Iago closed his phone and noticed that Claudio was watching him.

"Why don't you dump her?" his friend asked. "She's really annoying."

He thought about that for a moment. Claudio was undoubtedly right. Fabiana was oppressing. But Fabiana wasn't wrong either, Claudio, his childhood friend, small, minute, with blue eyes and glasses, was really randy.

In doubt, Iago had started telling lies to both. He who had never had to lie to his mother Ornella (who, knowing how her youngest son was, discovered each of his misdeed looking like someone who couldn't expect anything different) now, for the sake of a quiet life, had become a professional liar for his girlfriend and his best friend.

At first, he had been naively honest with Fabiana. At her question, "Are you coming to see me?", he had dared to answer, "No, come on, I'll see you tomorrow, tonight I am going to have a beer with the guys of the club."

A crazy scene had ensued. How dare he put his friends before her? Surely there was also a girl in the group. And if there wasn't any, there would be one soon. Claudio or someone else would pull some available trollop out of the magic hat with to happily spend the evening with her.

Iago had tried to argue, to explain that it was just a boys' night out, where they would make burps and farts contests. But she had not believed him. She had reproached him of not caring enough for her, and told him they should break up. And then he had got smart. That time he had given up, to avert a hysterical scene that was already well underway. But from the next time he had started making up everything. The official excuse was always studying. In the eyes of his girlfriend, he was a model student. For her he had come to forging the academic transcript; with Ornella he had never needed to pretend it contained anything significant. His mother kept letting him waste time, waiting for the moment when that miserable son of hers would decide to give up the farce spontaneously. That way, scenes like, "You forced me to give up something I cared about," and similar reprimands, would never happen.

Then Iago would dedicate himself to the farm full time, rather than part-time as he now did.

Basically, Ornella silently watched his defeat at school, supposing that it was only a matter of time. And Iago, who knew that quite well, had no need to pretend anything with her.

But with Fabiana it was a different story. She cared quite a lot to be the girlfriend of a repressed nerd. So he humored her, in the sense that he told her exactly what she wanted to hear. One day maybe he would have to organize a fake graduation party, but there was still time to think about it.

"Ah, if she goes on like that I'm dumping her for sure. But she's good in bed, for now I still want to screw her," he justified himself in front of his friend Claudio, to avoid further discussion.

"Come on, come," said the other, clapping him on the shoulder. "Let's go have some fun."

11.

Los Angeles

Mac had been dozing on the couch all day. He did not feel like getting up, or doing anything else. Connie had gone out shopping, then had returned with some food to cook and some magazines under her arm. When he saw her and saw what she had brought, Mac grunted, "Then you do it on purpose! You want to provoke me? These disgusting magazines do naught but remind me of my defeat!"

She blinked in disbelief.

"You really think I want to provoke you? Do you really believe me capable of this?" Mac did not answer. "Anyway, I have to read these magazines. You're not my only customer. Remember that. I have to be to informed about what is happening in the world of entertainment, to look after the interests of other people also. But, just for precision sake, there's not even a single article on 'Invasion' this week. You should know that, right? With yesterday's magazines you can wrap up fish by now, and those that made you suffer so much seven days ago have already been used for that."

Mac groaned for a few seconds. Then he grabbed a magazine and started to leaf through it nervously. After a few minutes, he nervously slammed it on the table.

"What does he have that I don't?" He was talking about Cillian Murphy, target of the laudatory article in front of him. "He's Irish, like me. He has blue eyes, like me. He has two sons, like me. He doesn't like social events, and in his leisure time he stays home, like me. Yet he never missed a shot. And journalists love him and hail him. Read here, it is a lifestyle and career model, he's trendy, he is. So perfect as to be hateful. And I'm Hollywood's laughing stock."

"Since when do you hate Cillian so much? I thought you were on good terms. He even sent you his best wishes at Christmas, and you to him!"

"I don't hate Cillian. But neither I can stand him. And his role in 'Inception' should have been mine."

Connie, who meanwhile had started preparing lunch, put down the pot with which she was fumbling. She thought, saddened, that Mac had never been so jealous of anyone before, neither so competitive. That it was the first time she heard him say poisonous words about an honest colleague. That she had fallen in love with him because he was a genuine guy, not at all corrupted by dreams of glory, because he lived for acting and not for the fame. But she refrained from commenting, she did not want to pour gasoline on the fire. She tried, however, to brighten the day proposing, "Why don't you sit down at the table? It's almost ready."

But he blurted out completely, "Not even on my deathbed. I'm sick of your chicken cutlets and your fries. You can't live swallowing this junk every day. I just need to get as fat as you, so no one will ever offer me a role again."

And, so saying, he left, slamming the door and leaving Connie increasingly incredulous and grieving.

Going down the stairs, he thought that his friend Cillian was also a vegetarian, and would never wolf down the fried chicken wings dipped in mayonnaise that Connie served him on regular basis. How was it possible that that woman always cooked so heavily? Unfortunately, that was one aspect of their relationship that he had never liked, since the day they had become a couple and she had served him a dish of fries. Was that a way of eating? Mac had always been a gourmet, accustomed to refined tastes. And if Connie had cared for him as a client, more than as a boyfriend, she would have cared for his diet and his weight. But, after all, what could he expect from a three-hundred-pounds American girl?

Then, however, he also thought that Cillian, unlike him, had been married to the same woman for years, had a regular family and journalists had no evidence of possible cheating, lucky him. Mac instead had a divorce behind, two sons by two different women, who were one in Dublin and one in Rome, many flirts, and was living with his agent, who he was starting not to like anymore.

12.

Turin

Giovanni was filled with doubts. Had he done well splitting from Manuela, in the end? And what had he earned by it? Now, to have an ironed shirt he had to run up to Cristini to his mother, at the farm, and he did so every weekend, with a pile of clothes. And even though he didn't like the diet breakfast made of insipid biscuits his wife prepared him – not once she remembered to buy croissants at the supermarket – it was still better than the nothing he found in the morning when, waking up, he realized to his horror that his pantry was empty because he had forgotten to do the shopping at all. At that point he went to the bar where he dipped a brioche, as tasty as greasy and heavy, in a cup of cappuccino and, leafing through a newspaper, he started his day alone. And to think that he had already lived on his own, in the year in which he had worked in Brussels, and it hadn't fared so badly as a houseman. But then, that time he had had a different spirit. Manuela, in Turin, sent him texts and emails all the time, and he was in love and hoping to build a future with her. Perhaps he had given up that marriage too early. Maybe she was right; it was time to start dating again and see whether there was a way to resolve the conflicts and smooth out the differences of character. He wondered whether, in the meantime, Manuela had cleared her mind, if she understood the lack of affection of which Giovanni had felt a victim, and she had gotten in touch with him again because she was finally ready to give him what he needed.

While he was lost in his musings, his interlocutor cleared his throat.

"So, do you understand what the problem is?" she asked in his hoarse and slightly low voice. "We should import this substance for reasons of study, and we would like to know whether there are legislative constraints on the matter."

He realized at that moment he hadn't listened to a single word. Yet this strange girl had been in front of him for more than fifteen minutes. Teresa Giorgi, a bob of blond hair, probably bleached, sunken cheeks, green eyes a bit sunken and hidden behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. Lean, with broad shoulders, she came from the research laboratory downstairs in the multinational company she worked for, and she was talking, of course, about work.

"Sorry, Teresa, I'm sorry," he justified himself, adjusting his glasses, that kept hovering in precarious balance on his nose. "On the spot I can't say, but I'll check and let you know as soon as possible."

"Of course, yes, okay," she nodded, uncertain, standing up to leave.

Giovanni had not spoken many times to her before, but it seemed to him that that creature was pervaded by a kind of background lack of confidence. Then, though, Teresa sat back.

"Say, may I ask you something else? A personal thing, which has nothing to do with the company. A legal opinion, as a lawyer, but for a personal matter. That is, I ask the question, and at worst tell me if I can speak to someone. Maybe you know a professional who is able to address the issue. Without commitment for you, God forbid."

He rolled his eyes. A legal opinion? He was intrigued.

"Tell me. If I know, I'll help you gladly."

She settled back on the chair on which until then she had been precariously balancing.

"Do you think I could sue my family? When my mother died, they told me only after she was cremated, and they didn't even give me a pinch of ashes as keepsake."

Giovanni awoke from his slumber.

"Really?" he said. "It's a terrible thing what you're saying. Are you at odds with... them?"

"Yes, with my father and my sister. We haven't heard from one another for years."

"Well, I would say that there are all reasons to demand a refund for moral, or perhaps even biological, damage. But I need some more information. Why is the relationship with your father so tense? Did you quarrel in the past? For what reason?"

"Oh," she said, blushing. "My father has never forgiven me. He always tried to put a spoke in my wheels. He never accepted that I wanted to become a woman, when I was still a man."

13.

London

Elettra had complained all night that Ted stalked her on the phone. To Patrick it didn't seem like that at all; indeed, it seemed just normal to him that the poor man called every so often. After all the two of them shared a daughter, right? He, too, in the past, when he had had to stay away from his wife for a few weeks because of work or other issues, had called continuously to get news of their child. How could a wise and judicious father resign to the idea that his daughter should spend her days without even hearing his voice? It was unheard of, inconceivable. And Ted was a caring father, Patrick was sure of this. To him, at that time, Elettra seemed more upset. Maybe his was only male solidarity? Maybe. Yet he could not see his friend as the demon that his former partner depicted. He just couldn't. And the hysterical scene she had made the night before had been nothing short of deplorable. He had heard her furiously scream in the handset, "You don't care at all about Cindy, you just want to control me, you want to meddle in my affairs that don't concern you anymore now."

How sad. And how indecent. Those two, apart from anything else, should have strived to have a calm approach for the good of their daughter. In the end, hadn't they chosen to become parents? They were the two responsible adults that had decided to procreate, weren't they? So why did they now behave like troglodytes? Why didn't they get a grip on themselves? But probably it was just a phase. Sooner or later the rage for the displeasure of the separation would dissipate, and all that nervousness would subside.

But that morning Patrick, peeking from the door, saw that it was really a nice day. Sunny, crisp air. So he decided he did not care about anything, neither about Elettra, nor Ted nor of all their moods. He had a wonderful family to take care of. And maybe in the afternoon, if the weather was unchanged, he could take Futura and Marina out for a stroll.

So, he walked to the subway satisfied. And just as satisfied he sat at the desk of the Hansel House, the software house where he worked as a software consultant. He switched the PC on and even dusted the screen. Then he opened the computation software and waited for the first results of the morning. Then the office phone rang. It was the reception.

"Patrick, there's someone on the phone asking for you. She says her name is Arlene Conmy and you know her. She would like to talk to you. I didn't understand whether it is for a business matter. Can I put her through?" asked Paula, the secretary.

He frowned. Arlene Conmy... a woman who undoubtedly did not know his extension, since she was calling the reception. Yet she had asked about him specifically... Who the hell...? Ah, of course. It was a girl he had hung out with a couple of times, many years ago, when he was eighteen, maybe nineteen. A friend of friends. A friend of his friend Max. After a flash relationship, he had dumped her, after which he hadn't heard about her anymore. Thanks God, because she was used to be looking for trouble. There was something strange in her, since when she was a young girl. Patrick couldn't put his finger on it, he was no shrink, but if he had had to describe Arlene in one word, certainly he would have chosen "unstable." She wasn't particularly pretty, either. Red hair, but curly and tow-colored. And the habit of smoking, even then. Also, a strange way of moving, a bit jerky, typical of certain very unconfident people. As if she always hesitated. He wondered how she had become in the meantime? Had she found a better balance? Because Arlene had been silent, of few words. One of those person you never know what they're thinking. Grumpy, even. But over the top at parties. She drank a lot, and then some more. Then she started to laugh, laugh, laugh and talk loudly, coarsely. She made herself noticed, in short. The one time they had been at a party together, at Max's, Patrick had laughed like crazy and drank a lot with her. But then, the next morning, he had felt as if emptied of everything. He felt a very bad feeling of all-around disgust. So he had never seen or called the girl again; he sensed she was plagued by a ton of problems. Sure, in hindsight he hadn't behaved exactly like a gentleman. But he was a teenager, or little more. And after that he had never done anything like that again. After his twenties he had always had healthy relationships with girls. Arlene had been a parenthesis to be forgotten, in many a sense. And now, what did she want from him? Maybe it was really something related to work, if she was calling his office. The explanation could be much simpler than he was imagining. But what kind of job could Arlene have? What road could someone so different from him have chosen? Probably she was calling him to organize a reunion between old buddies. Although it might not be the case. He had never seen her again after that party. And he had lost touch with Max as well.

"All right, Paula. Put her through. I'll take care of her," he said, still a bit puzzled.

"Arlene," he said then, after the beep. "Patrick here. How are you? How can I help you?" he asked, more out of curiosity than for any other reason, trying be courteous.

"Hello Patrick," said her from the other side, with her slightly shaky voice that he quickly recalled. "I called to ask whether we could meet. I have to tell you something in person. I can't talk about it on the phone."

He became a little upset. She had not even asked him how he was. Perhaps, to her, it did not matter.

"First of all, how did you know I worked here?" he urged her. "How did you find me?"

"That's not important," she hesitated.

"Well, it is. I haven't heard from you for almost fifteen years. Let me have a doubt, if you call me out of the blue as if we had said goodbye yesterday."

"I'll explain if we meet. It won't take much time. A coffee after work."

"Give me just one reason why I should dedicate to you the time for a coffee."

There was a moment's pause.

"If you don't, maybe your wife will be more polite."

Patrick's brain was crossed by a myriad of thoughts in a single moment. Arlene knew that he was married, and apparently she was able to contact Futura. She had taken the trouble to bother him after nearly fifteen years, and was even ready to involve his whole family if he had not humored her. But why? Even trying, he couldn't think of one plausible reason. What did the two of them still have in common? He was filled with rage. Although upset, he had to accept. Because Arlene brought trouble, whatever they were. And also because he was annoyed that Futura could even know she existed. Because he didn't like Arlene. And he was ashamed to having asked her out many years ago. Who knew what he had seen in her, back then. So he gave up.

"Okay, a coffee," he conceded, irritated. "This afternoon, so we solve it as quickly as possible."

When he hung the phone, he thought that the day was irretrievably ruined. And probably he could kiss goodbye the desired stroll with his wife and daughter before dinner.

14.

Turin

"Where would you like to go on vacation next summer?" That had been the debut question of the week, and Iago did not know what to answer.

"We are in the fall," he exclaimed, dismayed. "I would say that is a bit premature..."

In fact, the subject of holidays was a minefield, and Iago knew it all too well. The problem was not doing the booking in time, that was obvious. The problem was that Fabiana demanded yet another demonstration of love, extorting from him a long-term planning. Investing a deposit for the following summer meant implying that in a year the two of them would still be an item.

"I'd like a holiday in Formentera," she had said casually, leafing through a magazine. "All those who matter go there."

He had not dared contradict her. And then there had been a precedent about holidays. In August, he had claimed the right to a week at the seaside with Claudio, with whom he had already agreed it before meeting her. A textbook scene had ensued, with a professional blackmailer attitude.

"You can't leave me here alone to spend seven days with that pig! Who knows what the hell he'll make you do, that pig. I'm sure you'll find someone else. If you go to the beach with him, I swear you won't find me here when you come back."

At first Iago had been tempted to accept the latter option. But then he had renounced, completely. And now, already pointing to the coming year, that day she was trying to frame him.

"If you don't come with me, maybe I could go to Formentera with my friends," was her final declaration.

It was a provocation. A downright pitfall. If he had answered, "Go, you are free to do what you want," the price to pay would be like, "There, you see? You don't care about me at all. You don't care if I go and if I do somebody else. And then, if I went with my friends, who knows what you'd do with your pervert friends in my absence."

So he preferred to keep quiet and now, sitting at the bar of the football club, he was rolling a cigarette while turning over in his hands a brochure of the travel agency. The game had gone well, but he hadn't had much fun. Too many thoughts. Mac kept not calling him. Fabiana got on his nerves. The notions for the exam that he was supposed to give at the university did not stick into his head.

"Here's your coffee, Iago," said the voice of the waitress that, he realized on the spot, he knew.

He looked up. Elena, smiling at him?

"Hi! What are you doing here?" he asked, surprised and amazed.

The blonde Elena went to the same university as him, and he had been having a crush on her for some time. She was the object of his innermost desires. They had even hung out together a few times. But when he finally started believing that he could have a chance, she had confessed to being the single mother of a one year old son, Tommaso. Thus he had preferred, although with regret, to break up their relationship. She hadn't got offended, she understood.

"What am I doing here? I work here! The evening shift is all mine, six days a week, while Massimo and the others at the daycare center take care of Tommy, and even put him in bed," she explained, always smiling. "I've got to earn a living after all. I prefer a thousand times to spend the day with my son and work at night rather than miss even a second of him. At least we're together for many hours... And in the afternoon we share our nap. So I rest a bit too. But what is it that you have there?" she asked, pointing at the brochure.

"Oh, nothing, bullshit. It's my... my mother's, that is," he lied. "She asked me to take a look at the prices."

"Great! May I?" she asked, picking up the papers. "Such lovely places! I wonder if sooner or later in my life I'll be able to afford such a holiday," she said, but without any bitterness in her voice. At that moment, Iago thought that he would have taken her straight to Formentera, if he could.

"I've no longer seen you at the university," he blurted out, instead, just to say something. In truth he hadn't attended much Palazzo Nuovo lately, either.

"Oh, you know. I only need two exams and the thesis for my degree, but I don't know if I'll ever finish. I'm afraid I'll have to give up. I never have time to do anything. The baby takes up all of my day. And ever since I come here in the evening..."

Iago felt almost dizzy. Elena was good, diligent, serious. To her, that damn piece of paper, with which he would gladly wipe his ass, was everything. It meant independence, it meant having made it in spite of all problems, it meant a better chance to work. So he spoke without thinking, "No, you can't give up. Not you. Not after all the sacrifices you've done. Look, I'll help you pass those two exams and write the thesis. Seriously, tell me what to do and I'll do it. You want me to take care of the baby? Or I could help you going over the lessons. I'll make you learn it by heart. You choose. You are one step away from the goal. You can't give up now!"

She beamed and patted him on the cheek.

"You're so dear, Iago, I know. You are the sweetest guy I ever met. But I could never ask you so much..."

"No, Elena, no," he insisted, resolute, taking her hand. "You mustn't give up, and I'll help you."

"Really you would?" Elena asked, her eyes sparkling.

"I swear. We start whenever you want. Two exams and thesis. We do them together."

She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on a cheek.

"Thank you! You're a real friend!"

He started to realize the mess he had put himself into. He had promised Elena he would study with her! Studied! Opened books! Objectively he must be still sensitive to her charm, if he had gone so far.

At the very least, however, he would not have to lie to Fabiana. She believed he was always sweating on books, for once he would do for real what he always claimed doing. He just had to avoid going into detail, like saying that his studying partner was a blonde with a stunning physique who had taken his breath away for months.

15.

London

Futura had had to dam the fury of Elettra throughout the whole day. Her friend had been in heat for the last telephone conversation with Ted. They had argued furiously, for a change. They had rubbed everything in each other's face. And he hadn't restrained himself either. Futura had heard with her own ears. He had even called her a trollop. Unheard of. So she was worried for her friend, who could no longer find a form of reasonable dialogue with her former partner. The worst of it was that Cindy might make the expense of it. A little girl could not live long with knives flying over her head. But Elettra too was revved up enough. She was shaking and crying with rage.

"Damn him," she said. "Why does he call me if it's only to reproach me? Why? When, deep down, the one to blame for this situation is he!"

Futura had sustained yet another outburst and was waiting for the return of her husband to talk with him about it, though knowing that Patrick was less soft than her for what concerned the nerves of her friend. It was still useful to listen to his opinion. He had a beautiful mind and a nice way of thinking. And chatting with him while strolling with Marina was always pleasant. Futura was still foretasting a moment of family intimacy when she saw that Patrick had texted her; no stroll in the park, he apologized, work would take longer than expected. She was quite abashed. And surprised as well; recently he hadn't been overloaded with work. Never mind, she thought. They would do that another day.

But then, when she saw him come home, she knew he must have had a quite heavy day. He was tense, pale, nervous. Intractable, to be really precise. He even had sunken eyes, so much so that she feared he might be ill. Could he have bumped somewhere and be struggling with the first symptoms of an intramuscularly effusion? Or might he be nursing the first real flu of the season? So she asked him if he wanted to have dinner, or if he preferred a nice hot bath. He absent-mindedly chose the second option. And when she dared to argue, "Wow, it did not take another problem at the office before the birth. I was hoping we would come to an end smoothly without tensions. But what happened this time, do you want to tell me?", he turned against her and rudely replied, "The usual mess, what use is going into detail? And then, what should I tell you? Problems at Hansel do not step aside just because you're having a baby!"

At that she, who was finishing to put the towels on the edge of the tub, abruptly laid down the bath foam she had in hand and left the room, upset.

"Clear your mind, then we'll talk."

Patrick immersed completely in the tub, almost filled to the brim of hot water, after inhaling deeply. He wondered whether the warmth would manage to relax him. At the moment he felt like crap. He had just answered harshly to his wife, who did her best for him, who was the last person who deserved such a treatment, and who wasn't responsible at all for what was happening to him. Indeed, Futura risked becoming an unwitting victim of the unfortunate, absurd, inconceivable, paradoxical, Kafkaesque situation that had just popped up. So he was shocked at that time, and wanted to disappear from the face of the earth. For a split second he was tempted not to restart breathing, to stay underwater forever, there, exactly where he was, so he would no longer have to face the world outside. Then he raised his head.

Arlene had come to the appointment wearing an unfashionable jeans jacket. She had looked like a teenager; in fact, she had looked like the wizened and grotesque version of the teenager she had been. In short, she was ridiculous. Or perhaps, Patrick was just so ill-disposed towards her that he found even her attire hideous.

He had greeted her without getting lost in pleasantries, dodging her attempt to kiss his cheeks. Then they had sat down at a table. He had had a coffee, she a drink. Evidently she still liked to drink. He had watched her as she turned the glass in her bony hands, wondering once again what the hell she was looking for. Money, perhaps. Maybe she was about to ask him for a loan. To drink it, he had added, maliciously.

She'd beaten around the bush a bit. She had recalled the old days, when they had hung out together, when they spent time with Max and his friends, how much fun everyone had back then. Patrick had not been moved, nor he had felt touched; indeed, he had urged her to get to the point.

"If you think I should do something for you, say it and get it over with."

She had gone on with that stinging, awkward phlegm that was typical of her.

"You know the last time we met, Max's party? After it you didn't call me for a while, and I sort of disappeared as well. I don't know if you knew that I was away for a while... a few years, I mean. I went to stay in France with an aunt."

"No, I didn't know". Neither had he cared. He had come back to Italy, to his father. The university, in Turin, was waiting for him with open arms. So he had lost sight of a lot of people.

"I cut all ties with everyone, in truth. I was so ashamed..."

"Of what?" he had finally asked, hoping they had eventually got to the point.

"Well, I was pregnant. After the party I found out I was to have a little girl, Allison, she's thirteen now, almost fourteen."

Patrick's tongue had suddenly dried in his mouth. His head had started spinning.

"Pregnant? And who...? Are you telling me...?"

"I'm not sure, but it's a possibility."

16.

Los Angeles

Mac had been sprawled on the couch all day. He had spent another whole day grumbling and watching television. Another afternoon lost brooding over his bad mood. Moreover, Connie had started treating him with much less condescension. After Mac's last comment about her eating habits and her weight, she had felt offended, even though she tried not to show it. After all, she thought, who had she been trying to deceive? Julian MacGregor was an unattainable and moody star, she an obese and certainly not pretty girl. How could she have believed, back then, that a story between them would last? She was so settled, quiet, absorbed by her routine. He was perpetually restless and looking for new stimuli. Of course he had now grow tired of her, he needed something new. Maybe a beautiful woman to show off on the rare occasions in which he deigned to attend some public event. Or a new wave of success that, clearly, had quite inebriated him over the years, and now that it was temporarily amiss, had left him lethargic and apathetic like a junkie in withdrawal. How could Connie have believed that Mac was a normal and genuine guy? How could she have believed that it would work between them? Mac could not belong to her. He did not belong to anyone.

Yet she should have known better than anyone else. She was an agent in the entertainment world. She had seen millions like him, perfect nobodies who started working in front of a camera, and more or less rapidly, became so addicted to fame to suddenly fall into an existential crisis when the audience turned their backs.

Certainly too much notoriety was addicting, and vanity left no room for other feelings. Until then, things had gone all too well for Mac, he had not missed a beat. And now that he had to face a minor issue, he was not able to deal with it with the due pragmatism. Because being a world famous actor was not like going to an office every day. And as though Mac had started that job armed with the best of intentions and the purest love for the dramatic arts, now that he was in the world of sequins and pearls up to his chin, he was caught up in all those hateful mechanisms of rivalries, envies and knives behind your back that at first seemed to have left him untouched. So not even Mac was immune to arrogance, even though he was a good guy, principled. Why, anyway, must he blame her for not being on the crest of a wave at the moment?

The answer to the last question came to her shortly thereafter, when Mac – who had left for a moment while she, at her desk, was trying to answer some work-related e-mail – made his triumphal return.

Connie took a second to realize that he was completely drunk.

"What the hell have you done?" she asked him, angrily. "You know that I want no drunks in this house! I've told you a thousand times that I already had to deal with a drunkard in my life, my father, and he was the first and the last!"

"You," he accused her, staggering. "It's useless that you start lecturing me now!" he went on, pointing at her a finger he couldn't even keep steady. "If this mess happened it's all your fault!"

"Mine?"

"It was you who ill-advised me, and you know why? Because you are jealous! You made me give up that comedy because I would have to kiss Susan Stuart, my ex, and you didn't want me to."

"Me jealous?"

"Yes. Try to deny that when I kiss a hot colleague you're consumed by jealousy! Come on, tell me it pleases you!"

"No, I'm not pleased, but that doesn't mean... I mean, I'm a professional, and so are you..."

But she soon realized that arguing with him was useless. He was dead drunk, and soon he crashed on the bed and started to snore.

Then she sadly went back to her desk, moving her huge mass with phlegm and quiet movements, having reached a decision.

17.

London

Patrick woke up that morning hoping that it had been a bad nightmare. Instead, once fully awake, he realized that it all was terribly real.

He might have a teenage daughter. From a woman with whom he would never knowingly decide to procreate, given the opportunity to choose.

"It's a possibility," she had said.

What did it mean? That it was more than likely that she was his, but there was also another possibility, more remote, that she was Max's. After that infamous night, after Patrick was gone, she had found comfort very quickly. Arlene could not exclude it completely, but counting the days it seemed more likely that he was the father, rather than the other man.

How the hell could that happen? Easy. He had always been careful, with girls. He always took the necessary precautions. But that time, at Max's party, alcohol had flowed like water. And he, who had definitely drunk too much, hadn't been too careful. It only happened that one time. A bit of carelessness, a reckless behavior, not unlike someone not yet nineteen. An ill-advised attitude that now, more than fourteen years later, was likely to cost him dearly.

At the question, "Why are you only telling me now?", Arlene had replied, "Because I realize that raising a kid alone is very tough. Ally is lively, she needs a father figure to give her some discipline."

But perhaps the real question to ask was, "Why didn't you tell me before?"

If Arlene had detonated the bomb in due time, things would have been very different for everyone. Maybe he would never have met Futura, he would not have married, have a desired daughter like Marina, and would not be about to have another. In short, he wouldn't have had anything and maybe, who knows, if the teenager had proved to really be blood of his blood, he risked losing everything he owned. Because he couldn't take for granted that Futura would easily digest such news, even though there had been no ill faith from his part. And he was terrified by the idea of his wife's reaction. Maybe, if he had spoken right then, her pressure would have risen again, and she might have had another premature delivery. Therefore he had to keep silent, at least in the first instance. But it wasn't simple.

And then there was Arlene. Patrick's scarce esteem for that woman hadn't certainly improved in the light of the recent events, quite the contrary. And then, that stunned woman had a pretty hard demand. She was looking for someone to help her straighten out a troublesome teen. But how could she ask someone, out of the blue, to start acting as a father after thirteen or fourteen years, when until then he hadn't even known he had a daughter? Definitely she was a few cards short of a deck. Or maybe she was even too smart. Maybe her main goal was just money. She knew perfectly well that Patrick, that good guy from a nice family, would never pull back from his responsibilities. If the DNA tests had shown that the teen was his daughter, the man would start paying for her maintenance timely, even if he chose not to be involved emotionally, not to participate in her education. In this context, Arlene looked much less stupid than she seemed at first.

Steeling himself, Patrick stood up, leaving the bed sheets wrinkled and wet with sweat. How much could that matter cost him, from a strictly financial point of view? He looked around. For the house, larger than the previous one, in which they had settled less than a year ago, he was paying a substantial mortgage. And then there were the costs of his legitimate daughter, who would soon double. Finally, the ailments for Futura, if she had filed for divorce. And how to blame her? In short, three daughters and an ex-wife to support would drain him. That would mean devoting his life to work. Yet, from the financial point of view, Patrick felt that he could make it.

What troubled him most was the emotional side. If Allison was his daughter, would he love her like the other two? Was it possible to love a child you never wanted, that you had many years ago, due to a distraction, from a woman you did not love, just because the girl had half of your genes?

What would make him feel more peace of mind? Trying to build with her a father-daughter relationship, or writing a monthly allowance check without ever meeting her, in order to protect the family he had willingly created?

And if he opted for the second option, would anyone blame him? Was he required to recognize an almost adult heir that was being forced on him all of a sudden? How could a mistake so distant in time bring now such a costly bill? Did he have to pay for that mistake he didn't even know he had made? After all he no longer was that stupid and naive little boy who went to parties. He was a serious family man. He was a completely different person. Why must that sentence fall over him right now?

Right then, Futura entered the bedroom.

"Ah, you're up, I see. Coming down for breakfast?" she said, planting a big kiss on his cheek.

He smiled sadly. How would Futura react learning all that? Sooner or later he must tell her about it. Not immediately, but after the birth, if the outcome of the DNA test was positive. And what would make his wife more proud of him? Assuming all of his obligations as father, including the emotional ones, risking to steal time and attention from his legitimate family, or deciding to only act as an ATM for Allison? How jealous would Futura be of the newcomer? How threatened would she feel? And how free was he to choose whether or not to become attached to his firstborn?

As all those distressing and twisted thoughts overlapped in his mind, Patrick was seized by a sudden dizziness. He had to sit down.

"Honey, you don't look good at all," Futura said, rushing and placing a hand on his forehead. "You're pale, tense. You've been looking so tried since yesterday evening. Are you nursing a flu? Why don't you go back to bed?"

Patrick put the loving face of his wife into focus. Ah, if she had known the real reason for his discomfort. She would have been much less well disposed. And he could not accept her cares knowing what he was brewing. Among other things, with Elettra screaming downstairs, arguing loudly on the phone with Ted in tight slang, he would not be able to rest. Bed would soon become a torment.

"No, I'm fine," he said. "Really, it's nothing. Now I'll get dressed and go to work."

18.

Los Angeles

Mac woke with a parched mouth, the usual bad mood and a fierce headache. He stumbled off the bed. He looked around and saw that Connie wasn't there. The apartment was quiet. He shuffled into the kitchen where he found a jug of hot coffee and two aspirins on the table, along with a letter addressed to him. Still groggy, he opened it and started to read.

"Dear Julian, Mac,

Where should I start from? I could start from the ending, from the fact that you came to my house drunk and you know that this is something I cannot tolerate. Or from your unfounded allegations of having deliberately undermined your career to indulge my jealousy.

See, Mac, I'm sorry if your movie went bad. Sometimes scripts we're sent are obviously nonsense, sometimes scripts are interesting, premises look good, but the movie, once completed, turns out to be a fiasco. You know, balances aren't always easy to find, there's no magic formula for a good production. I apologize if I didn't understand in time that 'Invasion' was an idiocy, but sometimes it happens to be wrong, I have no crystal ball, I could not foresee the extent of the failure.

So far it was the agent talking. That said, Mac, we can't go on like this. I see you're hugely unmotivated, both at work and with me. You treated me badly, and I'm not here to always be the target of your outbursts. I'm not a trash can in which you can dump all the shit you want to get rid of.

Mac, I don't know you anymore, that's the truth. Some time ago you would never have done all this for a movie gone wrong. You would have taken it much more lightly. But now you made a tragedy of it. When did you become so competitive? Have you always been like this and I never noticed? Since when are you willing to kill for a successful role?

In short, what is your values system? What's in the first place? Envying colleagues? Rivalry? Lust for glory? Because if these are your priorities, I'm not going to lose any more time with you.

So I thought this: I packed your bags and today, when I come back, I don't want to find you home and, since the apartment is mine, it's not me who has to move out.

Go, make a trip, go visit your children, clear your mind. And while you're at it, read that new script. It's a serious film, who knows, maybe it can inspire you something.

And when you've thought about it, call me. So you can tell me whether you want to keep working and/or living with me.

Good luck, I hope to hear from you soon.

Connie"

Mac looked around, still confused. He put the suitcases next to the door into focus. He angrily grabbed them and walked out from the house, closing the door behind him.

19.

Turin

In the end they opted for a midweek dinner at Kipling in Via Bodoni, so to join Giovanni's desire for Piedmontese cuisine and Manuela's taste for ethnic food. She arrived looking at her best, and when he saw her he couldn't remain insensitive. Manuela was really pretty, with her doe-like brown eyes, lightly made up, and her heart-shaped mouth painted of a cyclamen pink hue. She greeted him with a large smile.

"Sure it feels weird to meet, after such a long time, like two young fiancées" she said, complementing that with a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

He was surprised and a bit embarrassed by so much confidence. Then he thought they had been married, there had been much more than that between them, so maybe it was silly to feel disturbed by a little kiss.

However, they sat on the colored plastic chairs of the place. As expected, Manuela ordered an Indian dish, leaving half of it untouched. There was a nice atmosphere, soft lighting, candles on the table.

She chirped for the best part of an hour and more, talking about this and that, trying to put herself on display, self-promoting. She was nice, pleasant, self-confident. She told him that she had been at that same restaurant recently, with her friends – she did not specify which ones – that they had had a lot fun after being at the cinema. For a while, the cliché of their interaction recurred the same as a million other times, she posed like a great diva and he adored her.

Until, at some point, out of the blue, Giovanni said, "How's the job at Nadia's?"

She suddenly turned up her nose.

"God, Gio, where did it come from? Do you want to talk about work in a place like this? Anyway, it's always the same old story. I told you the other day on the phone. What do you think could have changed? Nadia is reorganizing everything, but the truth is she dictates the rules and the rest of us execute them. Why do you ask?"

He did not flinch.

"Didn't you always say that helping women in need was your mission in life? Well, if you pay attention to me for a moment I'll explain, and if you won't bring the case to Nadia, you'll have the opportunity to handle your own first cause on your own."

"A woman in trouble?" Manuela's eyes shone. "What happened to her? Her husband beat her?" she asked excitedly, tidying her hair with a nervous gesture.

"No, not exactly. She's a colleague of mine, not married, disputing with her father."

"A colleague of yours?" Manuela was alarmed. Then she had a dig at him, "Hey, is it that you have a new flame? Be aware that I'm jealous! Why do you care so much?" she joked, but not too much.

So Giovanni explained Teresa's story. Her mother cremated without informing her, the quarrel with her father and, in the end, the little detail of the sex adjustment, poorly digested by her family. Teresa had been born Terenzio Giorgi, but now, after a years-long process, after hormone treatments and several surgeries – including the latest, decisive and irreversible one, that had removed her male reproductive organs – she had legally and officially become a woman.

Manuela widened her eyes. Then she regained her composure.

"Well, you know, a surgery, no matter how radical, will never really make a female of her. Such a person will always be a sort of amputee. They removed his penis and scrotum, they created a fake vagina, but it's not like they made him able to procreate. He will never get pregnant and bear children. He will always be a half-person, no longer a man, but not really a woman," she said, inwardly relieved that the person Giovanni had become a paladin for was some kind of freak that she just could not deem as a potential rival.

He found himself annoyed by such an outburst.

"Manuela, Teresa is legally a woman, now. Who better than you, who defend the entire women category, should know? So, use feminine pronouns to talk about her, please. She's no longer a transsexual, or a transvestite. She's a person who reached the end of her sex adjustment path, so it would be juridically wrong to talk of her as if she were a male. And if Teresa agreed to be 'amputated', as you say, of the sexual organs she originally had, clearly the current situation of 'compromise' fits her better than the previous one. And, finally, remember that femininity is not measured by the ability to bear children! There's a lot of barren people in the world whose gender is not questioned by anyone!"

"Barren is fine, but Teresa is missing an uterus, ovaries, she does not have a single female hormone in her blood, unless she intakes them artificially!" She spoke so loudly that she made their neighbors turn. Then she added, more discreetly, "She's sentenced to dope with oestrogens for the rest of her life, and no one will ever implant her a real reproductive organ! Does it seem to you that such a person can be defined a woman? When three thousand years from now scientists will find her fossilized corpse and study her DNA, they will agree that it was a man!"

"Now you're creepy," he said with disgust.

"Don't get me wrong," she added, wiping her mouth with the napkin. "I have nothing against him, or her, or whatever. I just pity her. She's a creature destined to unhappiness. She's already lucky that she didn't end up on a bad road, prostitution or anything like that."

Giovanni refrained from saying anything about the last statement. He did not know Teresa enough to swear that she was happy, and he did not know any another former transsexual to make comparisons. But she did not seem about to start selling herself.

"Anyway, don't worry," she assured him. "If it's important for you, I'll meet her. Take her to our house one of these evenings. That is, I mean, come to me, one of these evenings," she corrected herself, in the end, assuming that if she really helped that pitiful case she would, among other things, regain points with Giovanni.

20.

London

And to say that he was famous for being a control maniac. Had he been such at that party, fourteen years ago... Patrick could not get over it. Back from the office, where he had not managed to do much, he had rushed under the shower, hoping that the water would wash away his distress and his guilt as well. Because there was only one truth, Allison could either be his daughter or not, but he was still guilty of carelessness. If that teenager wasn't his daughter, it was a mere accident. He had blundered at the time anyway. A huge blunder. And now she popped up at the risk of ruining everything, just now that his life had taken a lining of perfection like never before.

He remembered Futura's words, "We haven't just been lucky, we've been good. Let's face it. We always walked the line." He too believed that she was right, in fact, that all that family and personal success was due in large part to their merits. And he had gloated quite a bit about it. Instead, Patrick was far from being spotless. He was a jerk through and through, like many others and even more. And maybe that was just what terrified him when he thought about a confrontation with his wife. He was afraid that she would realize that she hadn't married an infallible man, perfect and inimitable. That he wasn't the responsible guy whom she thought she had married. He was just an impostor pretending to be disciplined and precise, when in truth, when he was eighteen, he hadn't thought even for a second that his actions might have dire consequences, that his unrestrained teenage desires could change his life. So he felt terribly guilty. And he was terrified that, even in case Futura accepted his new fatherhood, even in case she managed to deal with the extended family, her esteem for him would fail, because she would always identify him as the impulsive boy who had drank first, then consumed high-risk intercourse, and reminding her that he had since grown and matured would be useless. So, was it right having to suffer for such a heavy guilt after almost fifteen years?

Who could he talk about it? Who the heck could he discuss it with? Maybe he should call Mac. He would like to hear the voice of his friend, and he was an expert on the matter of unplanned fatherhood. He had had two, no less. But he was different. He was known to be a free spirit, it was in his character never to plan anything outside of work. Mac had always had a steady stream of women going in and out of his bed, all the time, even while he was married to Johanna, and the fact that he had temporarily settled with Connie did not make an ordinary husband of him. He would call him anyway, apart from everything else.

Out of the shower, Patrick donned a robe and dried his hair with a towel, then flopped down on the bed, with no energy left. It was then that he realized that feeling, not new to him, that oppressed his chest. He felt unable to breathe, as if he had a weight between his ribs. Besides, his hands, feet, and face had started tingling. In short, he instantly recognized it for a panic attack, one of those that never failed to seize him at times when he seemed unable to govern anything in his life. He tried to breathe deeply, to breathe with his diaphragm. He could hear Elettra yelling on the phone downstairs, always stuck to that damn device. Even worse, she was screaming like a seller at the market against little Cindy. In short, Patrick could stand her less and less, and sooner or later, he was sure, he would answer her rudely. He was not sure he could withstand the stress he was burdened with added to the pseudo-problems of that sort of sailor he had welcomed in his house. His British self-control was already strained, at present, and he did not need additional stress to yield abruptly.

Futura came into the bathroom, where he had returned, as he was putting ten drops of anxiolytic in a glass of water.

"What's the matter?" she asked, alarmed. "Why are you taking that stuff?"

"Work, I told you, I'm stressed," he hastily justified himself. "And Elettra, darn, who does she think she is? Ever since I came back she's done nothing but hog attention. And she has an arrogance I don't like. Do you realize how much she's expanding in this house? Last night she even managed to criticize your chicken curry. What need did she have to? How did she dare? I don't think I can tolerate this a minute longer. Either she changes her way, or she'd rather leave! You tell her or should I?"

"Patrick," she said, fuming, "Elettra is my friend, she can give me all the advice she wants in the kitchen!"

Why had he treated his wife so badly again? It was the last of his targets, but he hadn't been able to behave in a more dignified way, so he had added a new source of shame to the secret list known only to him. But she went on with another remark, "You're hiding something from me."

At that, he felt like he could die on the spot.

"You're not honest with me. This anxiety, this stress can't come just from you work", he looked him straight in the eyes and he felt lost. "You're not honest, but I think I know what it is."

How could she know...? Had she been snooping in his phone? Strange, Futura never did such things, she had never needed to so far. Maybe she should start. Or had Arlene dared to call her? Anyway, even if she knew, she was quiet. Indeed she took him by the hand, conciliatory, and made him sit on the edge of the bed, where she also sat down.

"You're in a panic for the girl going to be born."

He started to breathe again.

"And I understand, you know? Because I am too. Because in the beginning we took for granted that, since we were parents already, giving birth to a second child was a way to replicate what we had already done. But then, along the way, new anxieties crept in. For example, I keep wondering whether I'll be able to handle two little girls, to love them the same way despite their differences. I torment myself with the idea of focusing only on one of them, to the detriment of the other. I fear Marina's jealousy, I wonder whether she will suffer from this situation and if I'll be able to make her live it in the best of ways. It's a thought that will not let me be, I can't help it. Is it the same for you? Does it happen to you as well?"

Patrick felt probed by his wife's violet eyes, clear and sincere.

"Yes, I think I have the same fears," he said. And, although the reasons weren't the ones she imagined, he had been honest in his own way.

"Come here," she crouched down beside him, taking his hand and placing it on her prominent belly. "Now Emma is kicking like crazy, feel it."

He hinted at a smile.

"You see, Patrick, bad thoughts are always there. But I believe one thing; as soon as the baby is born, as soon as we see her and start to understand with whom we are dealing, everything will become easier, and many of our fears will burst like soap bubbles! Believe me."

He nodded. Maybe his wife was right. Maybe the most obvious thing was meeting Allison, face to face, starting to get an idea, understand the reality of the situation, even before the paternity test. Maybe, talking to her would help downsizing the problem.

"And then, darling, I know you're concerned for my health, but, trust me, I'm fine. All parameters are under control. Could you come with me tomorrow for the scan? I'm curious to find out if the little brat has finally turned! At the last visit she was still breech and I wouldn't want another free caesarean! This time I demand a labor and a natural childbirth..."

21.

London

Mac had gone directly to Italy for a few days, to visit his son Roberto, one year old. He was a lively and nice child, and you could already see that, curiously, he had inherited his tawny, wavy hair, as well as the blue eyes, even though his mother Louise was a typical Mediterranean woman with jet-black hair and eyes.

Then Mac had flown to Dublin, to Johanna, to spend a few days with Oliver as well, his other son. Despite his hundred per cent Irish descent, his hair was an off brown, like that of his mother, and his eyes fair, but puddle-colored. Oliver was one year old too, he had been born only a week before the other. If they hadn't been born a thousand miles apart, one in Rome and the other in Dublin, you would have said that they had been switched at birth. Yet, incredibly, the most Irish-looking one was destined to speak the Roman dialect. Twists of fate.

Anyway, they were both beautiful children. Healthy, strong and lively in an exhausting way. So, what was supposed to be a holiday for Mac, had turned into yet another toil.

At the end of his month-long tour – Mac could not wait for his two boys to be finally able to fly on their own and reach him wherever he was in the world – he wondered what to do.

There was still that new script to read, and to do that the actor needed peace and tranquility. He wanted no interferences whatsoever. And he had to process what had happened. Connie had thrown him out, and before that his last film had been a complete disaster, something to which he wasn't accustomed.

So he decided to hole up in his apartment in London, where he would have all the privacy he wanted. It was so long since he had set foot there. Unfortunately, however, it would not be like in the past. Until a few months before, Patrick and Futura had lived at the upper floor. It was in that building that he had known them, and they had become best of friends. Now that they had moved, now that they had become a family, there was no doorbell to ring in the evening to drink a beer or watch some football on the TV on demand. This, however, didn't prevent him from paying the old friends a visit at their new house. He hadn't seen them for months, he really wanted to. Now Futura was about to deliver another baby. And Patrick would certainly help raise his spirit about the unfortunate situation in which he had ended with his work.

At that moment, Patrick was in front of the PC, at the Hansel, with two open e-mails. The first was from Futura, who had sent him the photos of Emma's scan.

The previous afternoon they had been at the gynecologist to be told that everything was going fantastically. And that the fetus, her goodness, had finally turned, so they could try a test labor. Futura was on cloud nine. She foretasted her natural birth, with all the contractions, fatigue and everything else. And to emphasize what she had said to Patrick just a few days before, she had added some comments to the email.

"Here's the photo of our baby! Isn't she beautiful? I'm sending it to you, so you start familiarizing with her! You'll see, when we hug her, everything will seem easier! Trust me! A kiss!"

Patrick reread those few lines and felt like a worm. It wasn't for Emma that he was worried. Maybe he should have been, but at the time he was focused elsewhere, and this made him feel even more guilty.

In fact the second email was from Arlene, who had attached a photo of Allison. After their first meeting he had called her back, also after talking with his wife – albeit unknowing – about downsizing problems by watching them in the eyes. So he had told her, "Okay, I'll do it, that blessed DNA test. If your daughter is mine as well, I will acknowledge her and pay for her support. But before that I want to meet her. I want to know who she is. You don't need to tell her who I am, if you think it's better so, at least at the beginning. But I want to meet her, regardless of the possible result."

Arlene had started by sending him a photo, then proposed a date and time to have a coffee together. She would tell Allison that Patrick was an old friend of her mother.

Reading the few lines she had written, he realized that they were quite ill-formed. It wasn't still clear to him which was Arlene's job, in the chaos he had not delved into the matter, but something told him that it wasn't a profession that required writing skills. At the very least, he hoped so.

Then Patrick opened the photo of the girl and lost the best part of an hour studying it, without getting to the bottom of it. Allison had blue eyes and red hair. Did she look like him? Both he and Arlene had blue eyes – Patrick's were even fairer, gray, to tell the truth. Red hair could come from Arlene, or be a result of the gene he had inherited from Marjorie, his mother. For all he knew, they could even belong to Max. He was red-haired from birth, he even had freckles. Did Allison have freckles? Maybe not, but it wasn't clear from the shoot.

Yet – a thing that surprised him quite a bit – watching that teenager left him more or less indifferent. He had hoped that, if the girl was really his daughter, by looking at her portrait he would feel a sensation of belonging, the same he had felt the first time he had seen Marina. Or, on the contrary, a kind of repulsion. Instead nothing had happened. That face had not triggered anything at all. No emotion. Only complete indifference. Maybe seeing her live would be different. Maybe, face to face, something would change. Then his feelings would be clearer, he hoped.

Then the phone rang and he winced. He feared that it was Futura, and he felt as if he had been caught in the act as he devoted himself to illegitimate and unauthorized thoughts of fatherhood towards an equally illegitimate daughter. Instead, the display showed that it was Mac calling.

"Hello, brother," his friend said, enthusiastically. "How are you? I'm in London for some time, it may be that I stay here long enough. I'm in a sort of ... let's say... hermitage."

"Hello bad boy," Patrick greeted him, in return, glad to hear him. Mac was in London, what a huge relief. Drinking a non-alcoholic beer in his company, while watching a Juventus match, his problems would immediately take a different shape, undoubtedly less threatening. "How are you doing?"

"A period of shit, deep shit... When can I pay you a visit?"'

"You know what I was thinking? There's mess in my house, there's a friend of Futura who settled there with her daughter. So, you know what? Maybe I could come at you."

22.

Turin

Meeting with Elena wasn't so simple after all. During the day, she split her time between university and Daycare; she wanted to be with her son.

Iago had tried to reach her at the Daycare, some afternoons, but little Tommaso was always around, always ready with some request, and prevented any kind of concentration. Then Elena had opted for fewer, but more intense, meetings, directly at the university. So she got there, breathless, with a rebel locket of hair falling on her forehead, the books in her arms, and heavily sat down on the classroom chair. But she was often too tired and struggling to stay alert. Iago then had to pull out all of his patience, all of his phlegm, and steer her friend back on the right course. He had never thought, in his life, that he would ever have to tap into so much tolerance to achieve a goal. And it was probably the first time he ran into a situation in which his congenital nervousness and impatience had to be dutifully kept under control. But for Elena he would do that and more. He wanted her to graduate, and if the only way for her to do it was for him to bite his tongue and calm down, he would. Then, at the end of each study session, he smoked three cigarettes in a row. But after all he was happy, because Elena came out of each meeting refreshed and encouraged, and even a little more prepared. She was regaining confidence in herself and was increasingly closer to the goal. So she thanked him with huge smiles that warmed his heart and repaid him for all his efforts. And he was happy to have done something good for a girl he really cared for, even if she would never be his, even if the early motherhood she was burdened with would always make any kind of evolution in their relationship impossible.

But anyway. Seeing Elena satisfied each time a piece of her preparation fell into place, was priceless. And she would reward him as she could, every now and then she bought him a sandwich at lunch and in the evening, at the bar of the football club, she always made him a free coffee without getting noticed by the owner. And he basked in those little gestures, in those tender attentions.

"How was the game tonight?" she always asked, seeing him coming, his hair still damp from the shower.

In other circumstances he would have reacted by saying, "Like shit, crap, they stuffed us with seven goals and the referee is a cuckold bastard, and his wife a whore. If I cross him in the street, I swear I'll run over him."

But he could not answer that way to her.

"I'll do better next time," he said instead as she sneaked him a long coffee with lots of sugar and a cream-filled pastry.

The problem was, and always would be, Fabiana, who of course was completely unaware of those illegal meetings, yet she always surprised him by calling at the worst of times. When he was at the university he was able to dismiss her pretty quickly, putting her heart at rest, "Fabi, I am studying with my friends, I'll call you later, come on!"

"Okay, okay. What a serious boy you are! But how many cute chicks are there in Palazzo Nuovo?" she teased him anyway, making no discounts, and he, aware he had something to hide, hesitated.

But when he was leaving the football club, on the contrary, there was no escape, "Are you still there wasting time? Are you planning to stay there much longer? Why don't you come here?"

"I can't, I told you, tomorrow I have to get up early to study."

"Then go home and get to sleep!"

In fact, he tried to coordinate all of his telephone traffic unbeknownst to Elena – because if it was true that Fabiana had no idea of his study missions concerning his friend, it was also true that neither he had informed the latter that he had a girlfriend. So he avoided taking the call if Elena was in front of him, then he hid in the restrooms, or outside the bar, whatever the outside temperature was.

Every now and then he thought that he could as well be honest with Elena. After all nothing was going to happen between the two of them. He no longer had explicit ambitions for her. Neither he would bed her just for the sake of it; he felt too much respect for her. But also he didn't want to be seen with such a stifling girlfriend, that he really could not handle. So he said nothing.

To Fabiana, of course, he could only lie. Or rather, keep omitting Elena's existence, so that everything went smoothly. But then he felt guilty, because after all he knew he was wrong. He was aware that neglecting to tell Fabiana – even just in general terms – of his meetings to study with his friend, with whom he had been in love for a long time, amounted to an obvious proof of ill faith. Yet he cared for Fabiana, in a sense. He wasn't ready to dump her. So, aware that he wouldn't have spoken even under torture, to compensate for his hypocrisy he yielded with her on many other points.

And that night, when the phone rang at the bar of the football club, after making certain that Elena was engaged in other things and was not paying attention to him at all, he answered, "Hello Fabi, tell me."

"Love, how did it go tonight?"

"Well, we won. And you? What are you doing?"

"Oh, I was looking at the travel brochures and I decided we're going to Formentera. It's nine hundred Euros each, with a charter flight. We have to pay a deposit, two hundred euro, then the rest later. What do you say?"

Iago swallowed. Nine hundred euro were a large bundle of money, and he didn't have them. But Fabiana was keen to do it.

"Okay, fine by me."

When he hung the phone he realized he had a big problem. Finding nine hundred euro before summer meant asking his mother Ornella to increase his budget. She would do that happily, in exchange for his renewed engagement in the farm. If he spent more hours at work, she would surely come to meet him. But more hours in Cristini meant fewer hours in Turin, fewer hours at the university, right now that he had restarted, though unwillingly, to study. Now that, ironically, helping his friend, he had rediscovered the pleasure for literature. But, above all, more hours in Cristini meant fewer hours with Elena, and that was what really terrified him.

23.

London

Maybe, after all, Elettra's presence in her house, a few weeks before the delivery, was not of great benefit. Her friend – whom she had idealized for years, deeming her able to keep everything under control – now, contradicting everything she had always made people believe about her, was causing a daily turmoil that, instead of helping her get serenely to the great day, put her in a state of agitation without equal. And who knew how little Cindy must feel, poor thing, who always saw her mother on the phone shouting at Ted. Because even if he did call her often, which was undeniable, it was also true that Elettra never failed to answer and assail him. It even seemed that she enjoyed it somehow, even though after that, without fail, she burst into tears when she hung up. And she came to her and reported, in detail, what they had said to each other. As if she hadn't perfectly heard every single recrimination from the other room.

Truly a separation dehumanized people like that? And was it a temporary collateral effect, or would it last forever? Had her friend changed radically or, at the core, she had always been like that, noisy and unhinged, and so far she had just looked better than she really was?

Futura wasn't happy, and she wasn't proud of thinking ill about Elettra, but some doubts had crept into her mind.

Maybe Patrick was not entirely wrong when he passed his pitiless judgments. Probably, whatever had happened, Elettra should have been more responsible, at least before Cindy.

On the other hand, Elettra tidied and cleaned the entire house. But she overturned and devastated Futura inside, deep within. Because as she was there wiping the dishes and putting them back in the cupboard, or brandishing the flatiron in her hand, she was like a raging river, flooding insults against Ted. She did nothing but speak ill of him, nervously, compulsively. Compared to the early days when she had settled in her house, the situation had become increasingly, disastrously worse. Now her friend was a real fury, always angry, always in the mood for complaints and, on the other hand, absolutely single-minded. She poured on Futura all of her discomfort so she, both because of the regret of the situation and the sympathy for her friend, got to the end of the day full of tension. Emma, in her belly, kicked like a little devil as a result, and would not let her rest even in bed.

And then there was another disturbing factor, another discordant note that was starting to bother her a bit. Even on that Patrick might be right, at least partially, as much as she didn't like to admit it. In her imposition in that house that wasn't hers, Elettra did not just involve the whole Sartoris family in her personal quarrels, but she almost behaved as the master of the house. She treated Futura with a sort of condescendence, not allowing her to as much as lift a finger. To protect her pregnancy, she said, but in truth, if she engaged in anything, Elettra criticized her more or less indirectly. The chicken curry was one example, but not the only one. Even washing towels ("Don't you use fabric softener? You don't know how better it is") or how to toast the roast ("Ornella didn't explain you that you must never pierce it with a fork as you toast it? You must be able to turn it without piercing it!"), she had to admit it, had gone to her head. And an unwelcome thought had crossed her mind, at that moment; had she been equally troublesome at her house? In that case, poor Ted.

Because Elettra was a friend, she was going through a difficult time, Futura would always be on her side, but, damn, she was much meaner and less perfect than she would ever dare imagine. And that, even though it was a bitter thought, was inexorably leading her toward a sort of completely unexpected disenchantment and disillusionment. What a pity.

On a different front, then, there was Patrick, who no longer slept without his evening dose of anxiolytic, which, of course, saddened her. Was it possible that Emma's imminent arrival had sparked such a crazy reaction? Truly the unborn had thrown him into total panic? Yet, until a short time before, it had seemed to her that her husband was happy, even enthusiastic. But now, out of the blue, he had become nervous, intractable. Even at night, in bed, rather than hugging and cuddling her as he usually did, he crouched on his own and she felt him tossing and turning without having the faintest idea of how to calm and reassure him. She had tried on more than one occasion, but her words had mostly fallen on deaf ears. What had happened in the meantime? Some problem at work of which he didn't wanted to talk in detail? Had he talked, at least everything would have been clearer. Maybe he had been proposed a trip abroad, at MIT in Boston, at the robotics centre, that he hadn't want to accept so not to leave her alone, but now he regretted refusing it and hadn't wanted to tell her so not to make her feel guilty. Possible. Very possible. Or, simply, as she had first assumed, panic was subtly seizing him and making him doubt, as she did too, of being unable to properly handle both daughters once the second was born. In which case it was just a matter of time and soon the problem would solve by itself, for everyone.

For sure, anyway, Elettra on one side and Patrick on the other did nothing but afflict and darken her. It wasn't what Futura had hoped for the completion of that pregnancy. After all, what was the matter? It would only take enjoying the present and letting nature take its course. And, meanwhile, thank it for the gifts received. As she tried to do at night, in bed, when she hugged Marina, snoring, close to her. Then she could listen to the breathing of her eldest daughter, feel it blow on her face, and at the same time distinctly perceive Emma's kicks, as she tried as she could to tell her from inside her belly, "I'm here and I'm fine."

She had both her daughters a few inches from her heart, close to her as they would never be again. With a single hug she could surround them both. What could be better in life? How could she have been any happier? The only yearning stemmed from the idea that that moment of perfection was bound to end soon. That that night would end in a few hours, that in a few days that ideal balance would leave room to a whole new state to be redefined. So she laid awake, until morning, enjoying each inhalation and each exhalation of Marina, stroking her plump hands, weaving her fingers through her straight hair, trying to extend the time, to imprint that quiet in her memory forever, to make that memory and serenity eternal, soiled only by the thought that Patrick, who tossed and turned next to her with his troubled state of mind, could not or would not partake of them. And when she thought that one day, growing up, her daughters would no longer be hers, that they would no longer breathe on her neck, that they would take their own roads and go to live who knew where, like she had done, she comforted herself by saying, "For now, though, you're here."

24.

Turin

As she looked at Teresa from head to toe, Manuela entrenched even more in her firm conviction. All the surgeries in the world would never turn that guy into a woman. His head, too large compared to the slender body, was squared, with a pointed chin. And his haircut, that kind of ill-layered bob, was completely wrong; rather than downsizing the problem, it invariably worsened the situation.

"Please, have a seat." Manuela welcomed Teresa and Giovanni, who were standing on the landing, with a smile. "I made a herbal tea with diet cookies. Would you like some?" she added, once they were inside.

Well, Teresa, or whatever his name was, wouldn't need diet biscuits; he was as lean as an anchovy. Hormonal therapies mustn't have had a great success in smoothening her forms; there were no curves on his body, except for his breasts, clearly fake (too round, too firm) on which the hanging sweater fell floppily.

A smile surfaced on Manuela's lips. Weird creature that Teresa, former Terenzio. Sure destiny knew how to be really cynical, at times; starting her career as a lawyer defending women with a client who wasn't exactly a woman was somehow sarcastic. Never mind, it was still a beginning.

"Sit down, come on" she said again, anticipating the two guests and settling on a chair.

She realized then that Giovanni was somewhat embarrassed. Understandable; it was the first time that he set foot again in that house, which had been his as well, after the bang of the separation. But Teresa too appeared dazed and discomforted, as much as Giovanni.

Then, Manuela was struck by a disturbing thought. Teresa and Giovanni, both hesitant, both faltering, seemed so in tune with each other as to look like a couple. Teresa and Giovanni a couple? Ridiculous. She felt like cackling at the absurdity of the idea.

"So, Teresa," Manuela smiled, trying to be as kind and conciliating as possible. "Tell me everything. My husband," she said deliberately, then pretended to amend it," that is, my ex-husband, told me something, but obviously I need to have a detailed report from you. So, let's see," she added opening a notebook as if to take notes, "your father informed you of the death of your mother only after the funeral."

"Yes, indeed," Teresa confirmed, suppressing a tear. The thought still hurt her.

"And this in itself would be sufficient to start a lawsuit for moral damages. But, tell me, what are the existing reasons that led to such a cold relationship?"

"Oh, well," she said, opening her arms. "It's not hard to imagine. My father never accepted me for what I was, as opposed to my mother, who had gone over it over the years."

There was a moment of awkward silence. Things could turn bad. Then Manuela braced herself and cleared her throat, "How many years...?"

"You want to know how long we haven't been talking to each other, or how long I've been like this? Because to the first question I could answer 'about ten', while to the second question I should I say 'ever since'."

"No, that is, I mean..." now the one who was really uncomfortable was her.

Giovanni came to her aid, "Maybe Manuela would like to know something more about your family dynamics. For the lawsuit, of course. Since when did the relationship become permanently damaged, how they worsened over time."

Teresa looked at him, lost.

"Then I hope you have time, because I should tell you about my whole life. Because since I was born it was always worsening, with no way out. Apparently this happens often, when you are born into the wrong body."

Manuela sighed, trying to contain her resignation.

"I'm all ears."

Teresa settled on the chair and started to get comfortable.

"Ever since I became aware of myself, there hasn't been a single day where I didn't feel like a female. In kindergarten I was much more attracted to girl's games, just to mention one thing. I looked for the complicity of girls my age, I wanted to share their dolls. I wondered why I had to wear a blue smock instead of a pink one, so much so that I even asked my mother. To me it would seem natural to let my hair grow and tie them in pigtails, because I believed that then I would be one of them, I would automatically become a female. My mother smiled, she did not take me seriously. She explained me softly and in many details, 'You're a nice boy, you have a willy. That's why you wear a blue smock.' She thought she had settled the matter, but when I realized what the discriminating factor was, I started wishing to remove it. So I spent my afternoons stealing toy make-up from my sister, trying to put ribbons in my short hair, secretly wearing my mother's skirts and wishing and hoping that my penis, as if by magic, would disappear to leave room to the other thing that my sister Maria had, and that made her unequivocally female. At first my mother saw it like a game, nevertheless she told my father who, one day that I wanted to wear high-heel shoes, slapped me hard right here, behind my ear, saying, 'Enough with this bullshit! What are you, a faggot?' I was five, but I perfectly perceived his disgust towards me, as he started doubting about my masculinity. However it happened, my mother took me to a pediatrician, as if I were sick. She laughed about that, she said that at my age my quirks had no import, that my childhood fantasies had nothing to do with my future sexual orientation, that it was absolutely premature to talk about homosexuality, that probably there were too many women in my house and that I imitated my sister because I was an actor in bud. Perhaps, at worst, they should enroll me in a football school, at least I would become familiar with my fellows. My mother was relieved by that meeting. She declared the case closed, still my father kept looking at me with suspicion. Meanwhile, I had made my classmates laugh putting polish on my fingernails. In short, the opinion of the doctor, the teasing of the other children and the hostility of my father soon led me to believe that there was something wrong with me. I talked to my mother and she repeated that I shouldn't worry, that the pediatrician had said that there was nothing serious and that growing up everything would pass, that soon I would feel like any other male. Basically, my conclusion was that, at that moment, I was actually 'wrong', but sooner or later I would heal spontaneously. My desires, my aspirations, my feminine nature, everything would subside by itself, once I grew older. So I put on a waiting attitude. I waited to finally become the male I should have been, with all the related instincts. In between I went to the football school, which I hated, under the watchful eye of my father, who made me feel like a failure every time I failed a pass, which happened continuously, to my huge guilt. But it never happened. Try as I might, no matter how hard I struggled, how much I camouflaged myself trying to go unnoticed, not to attract the attention of my father, the transformation didn't occur. I didn't change into a male just because I wanted it, just because others expected me to, just because everything would be simpler. And my sense of lack and unsuitableness grew dramatically. Then adolescence came, and it was even worse. When my beard started growing, when I experienced my first spontaneous erection, it was a tragedy to me. I saw my body change and become something I didn't want, of which I was horrified indeed. I really could not accept that hideous shell, with a penis, hairs everywhere. It wasn't how I wanted to be, and I had never felt at ease with itt. But now it was a disaster. Also because the hostile attitude of my father didn't help me at all. At some point I stopped eating. For some reason I believed that if I hadn't nourished myself, all the bad things that were invading my body would lose strength and stop as well. It all to the great dismay of my mother who, more alarmed than ever, decided to go to a psychologist. But I didn't want a stranger to mess with my business, I wanted my family to understand me, to approve me. Therefore I tried to talk to her, to my mom, again. I told her the whole truth, that I didn't want to become a man, that I wanted to be a woman like my sister Maria; I explained her that I could not imagine why, but I had always felt like that, and I felt like going crazy every time I spotted a new hair on my arms or face. My discomfort's origins were not unknown to me. I knew perfectly what would make me feel good. I was a woman in the body of a man, I had just been born with the wrong sex, and this was a very simple, very basic concept, per se. I did not need psychoanalysis, as far as I was concerned. I had a very clear mind. At worst I needed support, to understand how to deal with the matter. Was my desire to change sex viable? As strange as my request was, even though my wish made a freak of me, made me look ridiculous, that was the truth. Yet no one at home would hear my reasons. They rather reacted by stirring the waters, every single one, relying on my insecurities and my guilt. The message was always the same, 'Your aspirations are clear, but they are illegitimate, they are wrong.' So I felt more confused than ever. Also because then they sent me straight to the psychologist. Not only, my granddaughter too, bigoted to the bones, wanted to have a say in it. She started saying that the devil had taken possession of me, that I did not pray enough, that I needed an exorcist. There were years of spiritual retreats, drugs taken against my will, forced prayers, sessions with the therapist. To my personal discomfort, to my sense of unsuitableness for being imprisoned in a body that wasn't me, which were already a pain without the need for anything else, they added up the prejudice of others and their determination to make me feel like a monster. Those around me tried however they could to convince me that the only solution for my happiness was for me to finally start feeling like the man that they thought I had to be. And they really did everything, either with sweetness or firmness, with flattery or rigor, so that I, the lost sheep, would go back to the right path, like my grandmother used to say, or heal, like my mother preferred. They committed themselves so much that at times I was tempted to say they were right, to admit that as a man everything would be easier, and to force myself to be who I wasn't. Then I don't know what changed, but I know when it happened. It was during a spiritual retreat, one of those to which my grandmother sent me forcibly. A summer camp in the mountains, when I was nineteen, immediately after the chemist school graduation exam. In the meantime I had grown up, and I was stronger. Anyway, there, in the solitude of the mountains, in peace, in silence, at some point everything became clearer to me. It was summer, the sun was shining and I was serene, my mind clear. I asked God for peace, I asked for an inspiration. Paradoxically, it had been right my grandmother to intimate me to do so, as I was packing the backpack to leave. She was certain that God would whisper into my ear, 'Be a man.' Instead, between breaths of wind, I received the opposite enlightenment, 'You are a woman.' Thus, suddenly, I stopped fighting. I had been doing it on many fronts; against myself and against all others, which was extremely fatiguing. Instead I found I was tired, exhausted and worn out. There was no reason left to clash and war. There was no reason to deny it. The truth was one, and a very simple one; I was a woman, a woman a hundred percent, I had always known and trying to deny it, to myself and to others, was foolish. Let them keep striving as much as they wanted on that matter. I'd take my distance from it. I would let them get angry, quibble, get upset and scream all they wanted. I no longer cared for other people's opinions. I realized that if I didn't accept myself exactly as I was, a girl in a boy's body, no one else could do it for me. When I got home after the camp, announcing that I had found peace of mind, they were all convinced and hopeful that I would publicly give up my quirks. Instead, I announced that I was going to live with a friend, that I had found a job in the company where I still work today, and that I would start the journey to change sex. It would take years, but eventually I would become what I wanted to be. This created an irreconcilable break with my father, who had always been skeptical towards me. Over the years, however, I became close again with my mother. It was her who looked for me, I had moved away from the whole clan. In time, she had understood what made me really happy. In the end she was close to me even when I underwent surgery. In short, she retraced her steps. She told me that it wasn't easy to think about me as a female, after spending the years of my childhood imagining me as a grown man, yet she preferred to have a daughter than a dysfunctional son. I understood her point of view as well, and we forgave each other. With my father, on the other hand, there was no opening. And Maria, my sister, never showed solidarity. She'd always been a daddy's girl. She was a real woman, and in my eagerness to be a woman she always feared my hypothetical competitive thrust against her. For heaven's sake, of all possible female models, she's not the one who inspired me at all. Let's not talk about my grandmother; she died saying that that day, on the mountain, it had been the devil whispering in the wind, and that the devil living in me would lead me to a horrible end, first on the street as a prostitute, then straight to hell. I can't believe it. It can't be. If there is a God, I believe that He will judge us for our deeds, not for the gender to which we feel we belong. And I'm a good girl, not a bad lot. There are always prejudices on transsexuals, they are often equated with viados. But gender disorders are generally not a fast track for prostitution in themselves, in fact, more often than not they have nothing to do with immorality, they only characterize a way of being. Anyway, then my mother got sick. A bad breast cancer. For a long time I was close to her, I assisted her, I visited her at the hospital, which irritated to death everyone else. But in the last period, when she was no longer able to act for herself, my father and my sister completely ruled me out, they no longer let me meet her and they didn't even inform me when she died," Teresa could not hold back a tear. "And this is unconceivable and unjustifiable to me."

Manuela, at first skeptical, at the end of the story was completely enraptured and enchanted.

"I have to study the case, no doubt," she said, getting a grip on herself and laying the notepad on the table. "But I'd say yes; I definitely want to help you, Teresa. For tonight's okay, but we have to meet again, I need more information. I'll let you know when."

At the time of leaving, on the door, Teresa said, "My mother had a beautiful name. Letizia."

When she closed the door, Manuela thought that Teresa was a fascinating creature, apart from everything. She wondered whether Giovanni had noticed too.

"A lift home?" Giovanni suggested, still dumbfounded, to his colleague, thinking to himself, when they were outside the building. Sure that girl had been through so much, really. She must be strong as a rock, despite her delicate appearance.

"Can I ask you something indiscreet?" she asked, instead of answering. "Why did you and Manuela break up? She's such a serious girl, so committed. She listened to me wide-eyed throughout the whole evening, sincerely interested in my case. And she's really beautiful. I would sell my soul to my grandmother's devil to be half as beautiful as her."

25.

London

He had told Futura he was going to play with his old friends.

"What a great idea," she had said, joyful. "It was about time you decided to. How long haven't you seen the old jazz crew? Maybe you can finally vent off your stress a bit."

The all too cheerful reaction of his wife had made him even more upset. Not only he had to remember the lie he had told her, but also be prepared to answer his wife's questions with a lot of detail he was not ready to make up. Sure lying was a hell of a job. And he wasn't a professional liar. He was an amateur. He had never been in such a situation.

Anyway, he was going to meet Mac that evening. He just had to remember bringing the sax along. He needed his friend and someone who would listen without judging.

Entering the old building where he no longer lived affected him somehow. He had left that place only a few months ago and it seemed like an eternity. He was pierced by nostalgia.

When Mac opened the door of the apartment, he almost did not recognize him.

"Man, I thought I was in a bad shape, but yours is terrible. What the hell happened to you?" the actor said, with much apprehension and little tact.

Patrick collapsed immediately. He flopped down on the couch, where he had also badly thrown his useless sax, he opened a non-alcoholic beer and quaffed everything, drink and words. He didn't keep anything for himself, he talked about Arlene, his probable fatherhood and the fear of the Futura's reaction.

"My wife doesn't even know I'm here, right now. I didn't tell her that you're in town, otherwise she would immediately invite you over for a dinner, and goodbye privacy. I've never been in such a situation, forced to lie to her on everything. It's a condition I don't like, I never lived telling lies, my marriage is not based on bullshit, that's not how I want to live and I'm not even able to. But I'm too afraid of the consequences to confess everything."

"You'll have to do it, sooner or later, especially if the girl is really your daughter," Mac reminded him, dismayed, wiping the beer spilled on the floor with a rag.

"I would never imagine I'd suddenly find myself the father of a thirteen-year-old girl, shared with a woman I barely know and who, moreover, I don't like much. It was the last issue I supposed I could face in my life. All for a single distraction, a carelessness made when I was eighteen..." He stood silent for a few minutes, biting his lower lip.

"Who knows, maybe something good might come out of this trouble. I too, at first, was not sure I wanted to recognize Roberto, son of a one-night stand. But now, since he was born, my life improved, apart from everything else. Luisa and I are friends by now. And he's such a cute baby, so cheerful. He even has my hair, you know? Look, I'll show you a picture. The little brat is a blast."

"Yes, Mac, it's very nice that you grew fond of an unexpected son. But when you found out about his existence you didn't have to justify it to anyone. But I have a family, I have a wife, a two years old daughter and another one on the way. And you've seen Roberto being born. I didn't even have this chance, because until a few weeks ago I didn't even know this Allison existed!"

"It's quite a problem, man, you know?" Mac made no attempt to sugar the pill as he wiped his black-rimmed glasses. "But Futura is an intelligent and sympathetic woman. For sure she'll know how to handle the thing."

"You think? And if her pressure rises and she ends up in hospital like last time with the emergency caesarean? I wouldn't forgive myself. Indeed, you know what? There are so many things I can't forgive myself right now. My stupidity when I was eighteen, in the first place. Then the idea that all this could mess with my current life. And I feel guilty for the lies I'm telling my wife, as well as the fact that, in the state of panic in which I am now, I'm also visibly neglecting her. And then there's Allison. I feel bad for her, too, because I feel nothing for this girl. I saw her picture and I felt no emotion. In short, it's all a mess. And it's likely to become even worse."

"Well, anyway it's not entirely your fault. The one to blame the most is this Arlene, who's been silent for all these years. She really should question herself, concerning her daughter, even before you do."

"Yes, maybe. But I can no longer stand this situation. A thirteen years old daughter... It makes no sense. Look, I'll show you her picture. Tell me what you think" he added pulling out his phone.

Mac thought about it for a moment. He didn't seem too convinced.

"A teenager; let's say pretty... She doesn't look much like you, actually. Are you really sure she's yours? Maybe not. Which would explain why you feel no emotions."

Patrick's heart warmed for a moment.

"I wish so, Mac, I do. Everything would be easier. But I would have no merit in that. The fact is that it's true she could be mine, and if she weren't, it would be just by chance."

"And even if it was just luck, what's wrong with that? Luck makes the world go around. When you find a parking spot in front of your house it's luck. When you meet your ideal woman it's luck. You're too used to behave like a perfect man, spotless and unblemished, they must have brainwashed you when you were little and now, when such troubles arise, you can't believe it. But when you're eighteen, and even later on, it's normal to blunder; no one is immune, not even you. And blunders sometimes have consequences. If you're lucky, they don't. It's simple."

"Yes, but what price will I have to pay?"

"Patrick, you're a great friend, you know, right? But, if I may, you mustn't fall into the trap of demanding perfection from yourself. You'd be sinning with pride, do you realize that?"

"You think so?"

"I do! And don't be scared about your marriage. If your wife loves you like I think she does, you'll get through this too."

"It may be that you're right..." he said, his eyes unfocused. "But, how do I become a good father for Allison? I am afraid I can't."

"You still don't know if you're her father."

"But what if I am?"

"If it turns out that you are, you'll find a way somehow. You haven't yet had time to digest it. And, if you want advice, don't fixate on this matter. 'I have to be a good father.' Who said that? It's not written in a script. It's not like you're acting in a movie, is it? You will do what you can. Time, then, will fix many things. You are obsessed by your sense of duty, by the idea of having to do always the right thing. But surely the more you demand perfection by yourself, the more you'll make trouble. The more you'll force on yourself feelings you don't feel, the worse it will be."

"Then what should I do? Forget it? Pretend that Allison does not exist? I'd feel like a worm!"

"No, of course not. But do not force yourself to be a model father, if you don't feel like it. Rather, try to build yourself another perspective. Just think that there is a girl whose life you could improve. Pretend you adopted her. Then, if it's meant to be, things will slowly take their own shape. Take it easy. You told me you're going to meet Allison soon, right? You do well. Start from there, then it will be all downhill. And if a professional of this kind of trouble like me says so, you can well believe it's true."

At the end of the conversation Patrick looked less pale.

"Well, since you have your sax, how about if we start to strum something? At least the stories you'll tell your wife will not be completely bogus," Mac finished.

"You know what?" he said, with a smile. "It almost sounds good."

They played for a whole hour, which helped both to vent.

At the time of saying goodbye, Mac said, "Now, tell Futura I'm in town, anyway. I'd be delighted to see her again. If you don't, I'll call her, so I'm counting on it."

"Sure, Mac, and thank you for everything."

Only then Patrick realized that on the phone his friend had mentioned having a problem too. Instead, that evening he had spoken only about himself.

"You didn't tell me anything about you, Mac. How are things going with you?"

"Oh, like shit. I even mentioned that in my e-mail, didn't I? My last film was a huge disaster. But we'll talk about that another time, now you should go. When you invite me to dinner I'll drown your ears talking about my work and my rushing depression."

"I'll be all ears, then."

"You can be sure of that. I won't spare you a single depressing detail."

After closing the door, Mac sprawled on the couch. Non-alcoholic beer wasn't the same as the real thing, but he had to make do with it. He was proud of the reassuring words he had said to his friend, but maybe he needed someone to pat his back as well. Or maybe taking the same advice he had bestowed – drawing on all his wisdom – and applying them to himself would suffice. After all, Patrick's mania of perfection towards life, was the same he had when it came to work, towards which he had a manic attitude. Perhaps it would just take eating the humble pie and remembering that no one was perfect, not even him when he acted and hung out on set. Or when he chose terrible scripts. And that, simply, the wheel of fortune would turn better next time.

26.

London

"Mac has been in town a few days already?" Futura asked with joy, twisting around a finger a locket of hair that fell along the forehead of her husband, and kissing his lips, a kiss he thought he didn't deserve. "I wonder why he hasn't called sooner?"

"Who knows," said Patrick, trying to hide some sort of embarrassment. "You know how he is, don't you? He's crazy, never straightforward, he does things when he wants to. And then he repeated that he had some problems with his last film, as he already told us some time ago. So, probably he wasn't in the mood to call us. And when he's not in mood..." he hoped that last statement was sufficiently convincing. It was.

"Yes, yes, we know him well. There's nothing to add." Futura dismissed the matter with a wave of her hand. "That said, when will he grant us his precious presence for dinner?"

"I don't know, call him if you want, so you can agree on that. As long as you don't strain yourself preparing and cooking food enough for an army."

"Me straining? But if haven't been lifting a finger in here lately! Elettra does everything. I'm starting to feel a guest in my own house, and I'm not sure I like it. Anyway, I have more good news! Obviously it is comeback time, because Philip is coming back, after a month spent in Morocco with Samira and Diana. Maybe we can invite them for dinner all in one go, before Emma decides to be born. What do you think?"

"Why not?" Patrick said with a forced smile.

And on that last rhetorical question, silence fell. Futura didn't explain what she really had in mind. When it came to Philip, she glossed over it. It was a minefield. She knew that Patrick poorly digested that friendship.

Philip had been their neighbor since they had moved into the new house. He was about thirty, a handsome young man with green eyes and straight auburn hair, cut long. His jobs were an unusual mix. He was both a painter and a cop, and earned a living with both activities. He had immediately tuned in with Futura, and a friendship had been born between them, further strengthened when he, in his official capacity, saved her from a robbery attempt that could have turned for the worst. But at some point Philip misunderstood a time of crisis between Patrick and Futura and mistook her need for comforted and understanding for an availability towards him, that in fact wasn't there. And Futura had tested on her skin how tricky and at risk of misunderstandings could a friendship between a man and a woman be. She had naively believed she had found an unselfish confidante, and she had had to face the harsh reality. Philip's concern stemmed from a huge crush that he – divorced and father of a daughter he hadn't seen for a year – had on her. All of the afternoons spent amiably sipping cups of Italian coffee and mugs of English tea, sharing a variety of problems and pleasantly chatting about a thousand amenities, suddenly had taken a whole new meaning. Philip, who was still paying the price of a forced divorce and suffered for having been distanced from his daughter Diana, had cried on her shoulder for a long time and she, pitiful and tender, had welcomed and comforted him for weeks. Since when, after arguing once too often via webcam with Patrick who was in Boston, Futura had thought that maybe Philip could reciprocate the courtesy of listening as she had done, almost unilaterally, until then. And she had vented, badly, with tears in her eyes, complaining of what had happened and how difficult it was sometimes to be happy in two. The misunderstanding, at that point, had been complete. Philip hadn't let her say it twice had immediately tried to hit on her, receiving a shove in exchange. Futura, running away screaming, did not know whether to be more angry with the cop-painter or with herself. Later they had talked, he had apologized and Futura had had to recognize that although she would have liked a best friend, Philip's needs were completely different from hers, but she had not taken that into account at all. He too, however, had backtracked and preferred, his goodness, to accept a healthy friendship rather than lose the whole relationship he had started with her. Since then, however, the situation had changed. Futura and Philip had met in a more detached way, often in the presence of Patrick, to whom she had confessed, with a lot of shame, embarrassment and regret, all the implications of what had happened. Patrick had taken note of the naivety of his wife, had rolled with it and put it off. He hadn't even angered too much, indeed he had tacitly allowed Philip to come to his house again. Not only that, they had even made a trip together to Italy, in Turin, with Futura, already pregnant, plus Marina and Diana to. It had been pleasant and Philip was a good person, correct, actually. But from there to going crazy about him there was an abyss. Patrick had sensed from the start the close sympathy the neighbor felt for his wife and he had been very jealous. And although later he had fraternized with him, the idea of seeing him again in that moment didn't make him crazy with joy. But it was not Philip's fault. He hadn't done anything different, or equivocal, or provocative in the meantime. He hadn't changed his attitude in anyway. It was Patrick who felt at fault, indeed. Hence his fears, perhaps irrational, had a completely different origin. He wondered, what if Futura, once she discovered his secret daughter, found in Philip her own great comfort? What if his wife, angry with him, not only left him but was also comforted by that nice young man, handsome and, to say it all, still abundantly available? This added further anxiety to Patrick, who was already living badly and nurturing a thousand feelings of guilt. What would he say if Futura left him for the other one, then? He wouldn't even have the right to complain. He would have to deal with it. Indeed, it would be the proper punishment for all his sins. After all, when his wife had given proof of love by choosing not to yield to the advances of their neighbor, she had done so because she believed she had a perfect husband. Or almost perfect, anyway. At the very least, she believed that he was worth, that their union was worth defending, that her husband was a responsible person. An honest and sincere person, in short. Instead, once she found out she had married a fool, a liar and a coward, Futura could easily change her opinion. How to blame her? And with each passing day, he was more and more liar and more and more coward.

"Yes, I'd love to see Philip," she went on, cheerful. He felt cold sweat running down his neck. "I need his 'professional opinion'. Not as a cop, not as an artist, I mean, but as a divorcee. At the time he told us that when you break up you really give the worst of you. I would like him to take a look at Elettra and tell me if, in his opinion, she has already hit the bottom, or if the worst of the worst is yet to come. And then, who knows, maybe between divorcees they could fraternize, share experiences. Maybe he, who already went through that, could be of help to her. Well, in fact Mac is divorced to. But he, you know, doesn't matter."

27.

Turin

The lunch at the office canteen was the only decent meal for Giovanni during the day, so he supplied his tray with first, second, vegetables, fruit, packets of ketchup, loaves of bread, crackers and breadsticks. Then, if there was something left, yogurt, pudding, some bread, he put it in his briefcase and brought it home.

Manuela called him every day.

"How are you?" she started, chatty, as if they were still married, as if they had never split up. Then she told him all that she had done. "In the evening I have a meeting to introduce my cosmetics. I have a new product, a really innovative face peeling, which I hope to sell well."

Why did she delve in those details? Did she really believe that he still cared? In fact, he was not entirely indifferent. And she was still legally his wife. She would be until the divorce. Hearing her voice, on one hand uplifted him, excited him. On the other hand it made him feel very bad. Because he wanted to hear different words. He would have liked her to ask him how he was, not just only as a pro forma, but out of real interest. Instead it seemed Manuela did everything to promote her character, to show him she had an interesting and active life that he should regret. But that wasn't what he wanted from her. He needed a totally different kind of warmth.

"May I sit in front of you?"

The words of Teresa, who was looking at him with a tray in her hands, awoke him and distracted him from his thoughts.

"Of course. You want to talk about the case? Anything you need to know?"

"No, it wasn't for this," she said, amazed. "Even though I should still thank you for introducing me to Manuela. She's such a smart girl" she added biting into a stalk of celery and lifting a forkful of spaghetti, after sitting down. "But I don't want to bore you with my family problems. I'll discuss these things with her. I'm here just because I saw you alone, so I wondered if you'd like to have lunch together with me. Just that."

"I'm not the best of company lately, I warn you. Indeed, I am afraid I'm quite boring."

Teresa thought for a second.

"But is there no way to recover the relationship with your wife? I saw how she looked at you the other night. You could see a mile away that she would like to be back with you."

"Oh, I know. She calls me every day. She fills my head with chatter. She tells me everything about her life. She tries how she can to make me regret her."

"And does it work? Apparently it does, if you feel so bad. After all, you too would like to settle things with her, or am I wrong? Why don't you? Is it pride that stops you? Because if it's so, you'd better set it aside. It's the only way to mend things. If I had insisted with my mother, we would never have strengthened our bond... Sorry if I self-quote."

Giovanni shook his head, holding in the air his macaroni with sauce, skewered on his fork.

"No, look, pride has nothing to do with it. In fact, I think I'm the least proud of all the people on the earth. I was born a doormat. Sometimes I think I should have quite another attitude, but I just cannot. No, the problem is not that. The problem is that Manuela talks a lot, but listens very little. She's never been able to understand my needs. I told you, she's not a bad person, quite the contrary. And honestly I admire her commitment when it comes to assert the rights of the weakest. But in personal relationships she can't see beyond her nose, she can't help it. She starts with the assumption that the other person must have great care of her, which I tried to do ever since I met her. But she never bothers to reciprocate the courtesy."

Teresa bit her lip, then bit into an apple.

"You think so? I found her delightful, adorable. But in fact I don't know her much. But consider that we all have flaws. Maybe you should accept Manuela for what she is, if you love her. Of course I don't want to push you in any direction."

Giovanni stood thinking.

"Maybe you're right," he said. "Okay, enough about me," he concluded, resolute, wiping his hands before peeling a banana. "I'm not interesting. Tell me about yourself."

"About myself?" Teresa laughed. "Haven't I already told you enough about me?"

"You told me about your past life, but what about this one? What do you like to do in your spare time? Do you have a boyfriend? Are you planning to marry?" Then he backtracked, blushing. "I mean, I don't want to meddle in your business, it was just to talk a bit."

"No, there's no problem," she smiled again, blushing back. "There's nothing secret. I like a lot cooking. All recipes in the world, even exotic ones, with impossible ingredients, I must try them all. But I love pasta, of course. And I eat a lot of it, trying to put on some weight. Despite all the hormones I take, my forms have not softened much compared to when... Oh, sorry," she added, blushing. "Maybe these details are gross."

"No, why?" he assured her, red to the tips of his ears.

"Anyway, for the records, at the moment I don't have a boyfriend. There was someone I was interested in, some time ago. But not everyone can go past the prejudice, you know?"

28.

Cristini

Iago felt like he were walking on a tightrope, in an extremely precarious balance. When he had gone to his mother, when he had come up to her presence asking for money in exchange for a greater commitment in the farm, she had started gloating like a cat that just ate a canary. She had thought, "Here we are. This university farce if finally coming to an end."

And then she had granted an increase of pocket money, in exchange with more hours per week of house activity.

Iago knew that when Ornella decided to put someone to hard work, that someone would come out of it exhausted. He had learned that over the years, seeing Futura scramble behind their mother's requests and watching, at a safe distance, the attendants running the stables. He, so far, had carefully refrained from getting involved in any activity that entailed responsibility and effort.

And now here he was, shoveling dung for two hours a day.

He could have asked the nine hundred Euros to his biological father, Matteo. A handsome fifty years old man, with dark curly hair and an unreliable look. But he was never around. He barely appeared at the farm. Officially he had another job, he was a sales representative of oils and lubricants for engines, he was always wandering around, he was a salesman, going around Italy and often even in Germany. For the records, he was married to Silvana, Elettra's mother, but that marriage, everybody knew, had been just a papier-mâché facade for centuries. Each of the two minded their own business, and it was not clear why they hadn't divorced yet. Matteo, moreover, was fickleness personified. At times he seemed committed to try and make Iago like him, to win him, especially now that his adoptive father, Costanzo, was dead. He brought him presents, tried to be his accomplice. If he had been there at the moment, he would definitely have put into his hands all the money he needed without objections and without asking for anything in return. The problem was that most of the time Matteo wasn't there at all, and no one knew where he was or when he would be back. When he was travelling he forgot the whole family, starting from his wife, and never got in touch with anyone. His phone was always off. Who knew who he spent time with. They said he had many lovers. Quite likely, he was pretty handsome and pleasant. Iago had a vague idea, but he was not going to investigate. If not even Silvana cared anymore, the problem was not his for sure.

For Fabiana things were simpler. She already had a job. She was a dental technician at a dentist's. In truth she was a jack of all trades acting as a secretary as well. So she just needed to put aside something every month from her salary, which she did not spend at all since she still lived with her parents. He, instead, had to slog. And when he joined Elena, he was devastated.

"Love," Fabiana told him, calling him on his cell phone as he, drenched in sweat in his windbreaker, was wiping himself with a rag. "Why don't you come here tonight?"

"No, Fabi, sorry. I'm dead tired. Now that my mother put me to work, there's no way out of it. If you want me to come to Formentera this summer, now you have to let me work. And as soon as I'm done here I'll go to bed."

"Oh, that sucks," she objected. But after all she was happy. Iago was working like crazy to show her how much he cared for that holiday with her.

So Iago always felt like he were walking on a tightrope, in an extremely precarious balance. He had to remember to fit schedules, to plan things, to make up proper excuses and, above all, not to give himself away. Because, after all that hard work, he wasn't going to bed at all. Actually he was going to take the car and go straight to Turin, at the Daycare where Elena lived, to go with her over the fourth chapter of the tome they were studying.

Because, despite the forecast of his mother, he did not feel at all like giving up Literature at all, at the time. He was enjoying a lot studying with Elena. Unexpectedly he had realized that those abstruse books, if taken from the right perspective, even became interesting, and that there had been a reason if, back in the time, he had chosen that subject. The friend that initially he was supposed to help study and go over the lessons, was motivating him to get back the reins of his university career. So, maybe Elena was not the only one to benefit from those meetings. In fact, to be honest, maybe he was the one who got the most benefit from those clandestine meetings. And to think that, in theory, he was the one who had to help her. Therefore Iago went on with his secret double life, properly concealing it from Fabiana, and became increasingly passionate about the subject of study, and about Elena who knew how to show it to him in a new way, that he would never have imagined.

So he was tired, worn, and more of a liar with every passing day. But he had never felt so alive.

29.

London

In the half-light of his apartment, with light barely coming in through the dark curtains, Mac, sprawled on the swivel chair with his feet on the top of the desk, was reading a script. In fact, he was reading the script that Connie had given him, requiring him to examine it.

After a first cursory reading, he threw the sheets in the air with an annoyed gesture, then waited for them to fall, scattered all around him.

A priest. In the committed film project he had in his hands, he would have to play the role of a damned priest. He, atheist that he was. He, who ate priests for breakfast. He, who had never understood anything about religion, who did not even understand the meaning of the prayers. He just couldn't picture himself making the sign of the cross, even as a pretense. And confessing people, reassuring them by claiming that God would sort it out, one way or another. Impossible, he would never be able to. It was better to fight papier-mâché aliens, it came much easier to him. Or getting involved in secret services business. Having a target to kill and shoot at. Or some impending danger from which to escape. Why not? Extraordinarily beautiful girls to save.

But no. According to Connie's crazy ideas, he should wear a cassock and go to prisons to redeem prisoners. He, who had never felt much sympathy for prisoners. For some of them he would have gladly thrown the key of the cell away. Those were people who had committed crimes, even horrible ones. If they were behind bars there was a reason. So the idea of going to pat their backs bragging a paradise he didn't believe in to people who didn't even deserve it, seemed the most unreal and stupid thing he could imagine. Better to fight with an extraterrestrial. It was still more believable in his eyes.

Connie was probably out of her mind to give him such an indecency. And to think that she was an esteemed agent. Lately she had done nothing but pass him crap, and that further example was the clearest proof. Yes, sure, the production was serious and the film ambitious and educational. Surely it could achieve a favorable reception with the critics and a dignified success among the public, but with another protagonist. He knew he wasn't cut out for that role at all.

Connie... Since he had left, she hadn't even tried to call him. He wonder if she missed him now, and if the reason why she didn't call was pride, or the desire to punish him, or a total lack of wanting to have anything to do with him.

On the other hand, he could call her too, but he was still too angry for how she had treated him and for the bad job she had done for him as agent. Deep down he still believed that she could have prevented the disaster of "Invasion".

Then he became restless for a beer, as he always did when he was nervous. Yet he knew that he could not yield to it. The urge to drink was always around the corner and he was conscious of having to be careful. He was walking on thin ice with abuse, and he was conscious he could not afford a misstep. If he became an alcoholic he would no longer work, not at those paces, not in valued productions. And Connie would throw him out of her life for good.

He looked at the fitness equipment he had in his house. He did not feel like sweating with weightlifting.

After several pointless speculations, Mac stooped to pick up the sheets scattered on the floor. He stacked them, put them on the desk. Then he slipped his shoes on and went out for a walk before the dinner with his friends. He wondered if Patrick's mood had improved? Certainly his jolly fellow was not in a simple situation, poor man.

30.

London

Futura wondered what had changed suddenly. Elettra's phone hadn't rang for a full day. Ted hadn't called even once. Or maybe her friend had avoided answering and silenced the phone. But that had not prevented her from acting out a couple of merciless comments. Nothing more, however, and for the rest Elettra had spent the day peeling pounds and pounds of potatoes to be used for the pie to be served to the guests. Futura had indeed decided to invite at once both Philip and Mac, in order to introduce the two neighbors, the old and the new one, who still didn't know each other.

Philip was the first to arrive, wearing a light shirt and tight jeans. Futura noticed that he was tanned, that all his freckles stood out and that his hair, already long before he left, had grown some more, so much that he could have tied it.

"You look great!" Futura told him, greeting him with two kisses on the cheeks.

"You too! You're in great shape," he smiled, happy.

"'Round' is actually a shape," she remarked, winking.

"Oh, stop it. You're the picture of happiness. What's the soon-to-be doing? Does she kick?"

"She kills me! She's very lively!"

"Here, I brought you some sweets from Morocco."

"Thank you, that's great," she said, taking the basket from his hands. "You were so kind. How is your daughter? When will she come to see you in London?" Then she added softly, with a wink, taking his friend from under his arm, "In the kitchen there's my friend Elettra. I'd love to introduce you to her..."

Patrick watched the scene, grim and tense like a violin string. After greeting Philip with a handshake, he holed up in a corner. He could not wait for Mac to arrive. Only he would know what to tell him. After all he was the only one who knew the whole truth.

The day before Patrick had had his blood tested for the DNA. In spite of his firmness, Arlene, with her trembling and apparently insecure voice, had convinced him, without having to insist too much, to take the test before meeting the girl, promising him, however, that she would introduce her to him before the outcome was ready. Just as well, at that point. The anxiety of uncertainty would be gone. At least that.

So now all bets were off. If he was Allison's father, he would know soon. The result would be delivered straight to his office. He had provided that address, because he could not even think of having it sent to his house. Imagine if his wife had intercepted it, if she had seen it by mistake. She would not have a pressure rise, she would get a stroke; he would never forgive himself for that. He could not say anything until after the birth, of that he was certain. By a twist of fate, the outcome of the analysis should be ready by the 11th of November, which was also the end of Futura's pregnancy period. It might not be a bad thing. At the very least, after the fact, he could count on a certain fact and confess the whole thing, if necessary.

Only Mac knew everything, including that the test had already been made.

"Are we waiting for another guest?" Philip asked.

"Yes, the guy who lived downstairs from our old loft. We told you he's a known actor?"

"You mentioned something, yes."

Then the doorbell rang.

"It must be him," Futura said, heading for the door. "Mac," she cried happily. "Let me hug you, bad boy! Come in, don't stand there like a mussel. You remember my friend Elettra, don't you? This is little Cindy." The little girl appeared with her face and shirt stained with tomato sauce. Mac greeted everyone. "And this is Philip, the guy who lives in the apartment next to ours."

"Oh, hello," Mac shook hands with Philip. "You're the one that replaced me in the role of devoted neighbor! I envy you, you know? I had a lot of fun when I lived practically in the house of these two! A time to regret! I am Julian, Mac for my friends."

Then Philip realized.

"Guys," he turned to Futura and Patrick with admiration, "then you really have connections in high places. This man is my hero! I saw you in "New War of Independence" and also in that other film, the thriller... What was it called?! It must be great to do the work you do! And you're really good, let me tell you! May I possibly have your autograph?" he said, as if in a trance.

No mention of the last flop. No reference to recent failures. Only quintessential veneration, which made Mac rejoice inwardly and infused him with the hope that not all was lost, that there were still people in the world willing to appreciate him without conditions.

Dinner passed quickly. The three men sat down next to one another and started talking of the typical serious topics of their time. In fact, after Mac had described his past movie glories and his plans for the future, for the pleasure of Philip who stood listening to him, hanging off his words, the three moved on to a much more constructive subject; football. They talked about it all night.

Virtually no one considered Elettra, who barely succeeded in letting slip some caustic comment on husbands in general, and hers in particular, as she was finishing feeding her daughter.

"After all it's always me doing it. Sure, it's not that it weights on me, God forbid. But men never lend a hand with kids. Let's not even mention Ted. Not once he fed her," she said, but she found no fertile ground and she did not insist.

Futura was a bit disappointed. She had hoped that Philip would devote more attention to her, for more than one reason. Instead he had reserved all his efforts for Mac. But after all, Philip's enthusiasm was as easy to rise as single-minded, and that evening it had been stirred by Mac, end of the story. All in all, though, it seemed that Patrick, between his two cronies, had finally relaxed a bit after so much built up stress. So maybe that double invitation had been a good idea.

For a while Patrick had actually put his mind off his problems. Mac and Philip had turned him away from his thoughts and he had giggled a lot watching the scenes put up by the two of them. The former could finally show off just enough and the latter shamelessly drooled over him. In older times, Mac would be shyer, humbly diverting the discussion on something other than himself, but now he felt the need to be a bit idolized by someone. Clearly his ego, bruised by the failure of his latest film, needed it. On the other hand, who better than Philip could make someone feel important? That guy had a markedly submissive and emotional attitude, he was seemingly born to lick up to people. Which wasn't always true, since when it came to arrest a criminal, or if his daughter was at stake, all of his real or perceived emotionality suddenly disappeared; he unsheathed nails and acted coldly and rationally. But that night a symbiotic dynamic had born between Mac, in the mood for self-congratulation, and a fan, Philip, in the mood for compliments. In short, the two were a perfect couple. At some point the subject had moved on children. Mac and Philip had found they both had children in continents other than the one in which they lived. So they had reciprocally patted their backs, sure that both knew well the inconvenience of such a condition. They both were fathers loving their children and frustrated by the idea of not being able to play their role in the best conditions. And they had something else in common, though they were unaware of it; both, although at different times, had been in love with Futura, who had been already married, but, as two gentlemen, both had taken a step back. Mac because he hadn't wanted to ruin the friendship that bound him and Patrick; Philip because, despite everything, he had preferred Futura's friendship to being left empty-handed. However, in the end, Patrick had appreciated them. He was very close with Mac. As per Philip, who knew, sooner or later. It was just that Patrick sometimes still saw him as a threat, as the automatic second-best Futura whould choose to shelter herself when she found out that her husband had been lying to her by hiding the existence of a secret daughter. The thought that his marriage could abruptly end due to that mistake of youth, and/or to the way he was handling the issue, kept ruining his days and was even polluting that evening. Meanwhile, however, they were all there talking about football, overheating while commenting the last Juventus-Manchester game, and no one, least of all Philip, cared about his wife. Because men could be friend even though they had been in love with the same woman. Women, instead, not always could.

It was only towards the end of the evening that Philip, while taking leave, addressed Futura in private.

"Forgive me," he said. "I promised you that I would chat a bit with Elettra, but I didn't. It's your fault though," he added with a wink. "You introduced me to a movie star, when is it going to happen again?"

She did not even try to hide her disappointment.

"I realized there was something far more important to talk about. When it comes to football, men no longer understand anything else."

Philip counted to ten. Then, although a bit hesitant, he spoke his mind, "Look, Futura, can I tell you the truth? We are friends, aren't we?"

"Of course!"

"Well, your Elettra tonight quite bothered me, so, no, I didn't feel much like talking to her. Sorry to tell you these things, I know you care much for her, but hearing what she said and how she said it, I have not really seen myself in her situation."

"Well, you haven't been listening to her for much time..." she insisted.

"Can I be honest? To me it's already stinging that she took her daughter away from her husband..."

"But not forever! The situation is very temporary. Soon she and Cindy will go back to New York and..."

"You say? Maybe. But Elettra doesn't look to me like someone who's suffering after breaking up. She doesn't look like a woman who wants to vent the accrued anger for her divorce, the wrath and sense of impotence arising from the sorrow of an ended story, as I was. She rather seemed to me someone who is clinically trying to demolish the figure of Ted in front of everyone. I'm not saying she does it on purpose, for heaven's sake. But she does not seem to me that she's suffering for her situation. At the very least, the anger she shows is not that kind of pain."

"Philip," Futura said softly, noticing that her friend's comment was not unlike what her husband had been telling her for weeks. "You know better than me that everyone has a unique way of handling pain..."

"Okay, I'll be more straightforward," Philip added, looking at her with his emerald green eyes. "I wouldn't be surprised if there was someone else, somewhere. Do you understand?"

"Elettra with another man? Well, no..."

"Who knows... And when you all will be convinced that Ted is a horrible person, she will come up with a better alternative."

Futura felt her heart skip a bit. If Philip was right, it meant that Elettra had fooled them all since when she had come to their house.

"I can't believe it."

"Maybe I'm wrong. But at the precinct I questioned many people over the years, and I am quite good at detecting liars quickly enough by now... Okay, forget what I said. Rather," he added eagerly, "why is Patrick, how to say it? so gloomy. Is there anything wrong?"

"You noticed, didn't you?"

"I don't want to mind your business, but yes, I noticed. He was tense, sad. I hope it is nothing too serious."

"No one died, if that's what you mean. But my husband is a bit down lately. I don't know why. I'm afraid he's having some problems at work."

"I hope that the matter will be solved quickly."

"Yeah, me too. Thank you."

Going through the door, Philip thought that Patrick, when he had greeted Mac on his arrival, had not done it with the same warmth as Futura, as if, that is, unlike his wife, he had met him only a short time ago. But after wishing everyone a good night, he decided to keep that thought to himself.

31.

Turin

The second time, Teresa met Manuela alone. They talked for a long time, the young lawyer made her client tell her a number of episodes of ordinary intolerance to which she had been subjected by her family, especially her father and sister. It took two hours. Manuela took a lot of notes, confident that everything would be useful, and inwardly acknowledged that the creature in front of her, whatever her gender, had seen everything in life. Feeling attacked and challenged for years by the very people who would should have taken care of her, must be very unpleasant, even somewhat unsettling. But Teresa looked like an extremely balanced person. Perhaps all that suffering had fortified her, made her a rock.

"Would you like some sweeties?" Manuela suggested at some point, trying to be kind. "It's without sugar. If you want, I can make some tea. "

"Thanks," said Teresa, just a bit hesitant. "Look, I wouldn't want to seem harsh but... don't you have anything more caloric? I need to get a bit fatter, to put on some weight."

Manuela was appalled. She blinked. She stood up. It was the first time she heard such a sentence from a woman. Maybe because the one in front of her wasn't a real woman. That was the first obvious difference.

"I'll see what's in the pantry..."

She found some packaged pastries, chocolate and coconut, that she had been given last Christmas, still untouched, just a little close to the expiration date.

"I hope these will do," she added, placing them on a tray.

"They're perfect," said Teresa, immediately biting into one with taste. "Sorry if I've been impolite with this request. But you're so pretty, so feminine... Surely you don't have such thoughts. But I have plenty of room for improvement and I would love to round myself up a bit. I can grant you that men like girls with soft curves, in spite of whatever us women are usually led to believe."

And if she said so... Manuela looked at her, genuinely surprised and amazed. Seriously men preferred fat girls?

"Can I ask you a very indiscreet question?"

"Shoot," said Teresa, dipping the sweet in the tea.

"Have you ever been with a woman... before?"

"Well, yes, once, with a friend. It was to try and find out whether my parents were right, if trying to act as a male I would really become one. But, no, it didn't work. So I rooted even more in my belief that I was right. And I still am."

There was a moment of silence.

"Can I ask you another question?" said Manuela who, despite the reassurance about the real tastes of men, still did not dare to touch those sweets dripping with fat.

"Tell me," said Teresa licking her fingers.

"How was it like to... change?"

"A release! After a short time, since I started the hormone therapy, I immediately saw the effects and it was a thrill. Hairs on my arms and legs disappeared, and my hair became thicker. For facial hair medicines weren't enough, I had to cauterize some hair bulb. But luckily I am light-skinned, my beard was blondish. The other advantage was not being too tall. I have the height of an average woman, or a little more. At least I don't stand out too much. I had a friend, I met her at the meetings at the psychologist, she was quite tall and when she became a woman she was a little out of measure, let's say. Me, I'm just a little too thin, but of adequate height."

Theresa described her changes with enthusiasm, as if having become what she was now had been a real achievement.

"And how long did it take to become as you are now?"

"Years, at the end of it all, of course. But, as I said, the work is still unfinished. The effect of hormones becomes evident in a few months. But then there's the rest. For example, hormones weren't enough for breasts. They are enough for someone, not for me, so we had to intervene with a prosthesis. But then, with all the people with a boob job around the world... And my nose too needed retouching... Later on, maybe, I could have my jaws thinned a bit... We'll see... It also depends on how much I can spare in the coming months... On the rest we did not have to do much, from the physical point of view, but there was a long psychological journey to prepare me to the removal of the genital tract. Because you can take as many hormones as you want, but that's the only part that really makes you afraid. It's the only actually irreversible step, and there are those who step back at that point, remaining in the middle; they don't have the courage to go ahead, they see it as a mutilation. Others do that, then regret it. But I went all the way and I have not ever regretted," she concluded, wiping her mouth with a napkin. "Sure, at first it was a bit annoying. In addition to the surgery itself, there is a whole procedure to followed. Applying a dilator for months and months, so that the artificially created vagina will not close back. And you have to wait half a year before having sexual intercourse."

Manuela made a slightly disgusted and appalled face. Teresa had had sex with someone since...? The other noticed and blushed.

"I'm sorry I've been so explicit."

"Never mind."

There was another moment of silence, spent sipping the hot drink.

"And now are you happy, Teresa? Do you like how you have become? Are you satisfied with the results?"

She thought about it for a moment.

"All in all, I'd say I am. I had the misfortune of being born into a body that wasn't me, but also the good fortune of being able to make it more similar to what I really am, and be recognized by the state as the woman I felt I was. But I am also aware that the journey is not finished and never will be. Because of one thing I am certain, my soul is feminine and I'll spend my entire life making sure that the outer shell resembles it as much as possible, even if I shall never achieve perfection, although there will always be some detail that could be improved. Anyway, yes, I'm happy. Now it is much better than it was."

Manuela stood silent. She had never considered the matter from that point of view. She had never thought about the good fortune of living inside a body that was in tune with your own way of being. She had always taken for granted that having incarnated into a beautiful girl and feeling a beautiful girl was the norm. For someone else in the world, it was clearly an ambitious goal to strive for, especially when the starting point was a male physique.

When Teresa was on the landing, about to leave, Manuela asked, "Can I ask you one more thing?"

"Tell me."

"Does Giovanni ever talk about me? Does he mention me sometime?"

"Sometimes? Always! Not a day passes that he does not. Seriously I don't understand why you haven't solved matters yet."

32.

London

Futura awoke in the middle of the night. Since the beginning of the third quarter she hadn't been able to sleep well. She awoke at four in the morning and it was over. Now, two weeks before the deadline, she could find no peace in bed. She wasn't accustomed to the size of that belly, both because with Emma her abdomen had swollen much more than with Marina, and because her first pregnancy had ended one month earlier.

So she put on her slippers and went to the kitchen to drink a cup of milk, leaving Patrick and Marina snoring, laying next to each other. For some time her eldest daughter had gotten into the habit of sleeping in their bed, and she did nothing to discourage her. Sometimes she wondered how she would manage two girls in a single bed. Maybe her husband would have to move. It was a solution she didn't like, she had always loved falling asleep next to Patrick, from the dawn of time. But she would think about it in due time. Now she just wanted to find some quiet, doze a little more, even if it was a hard task.

The second pregnancy had gone well, but with little annoyances and inconveniences that had immediately forced her to slow down. Unending nauseas well over the first three months, reflux, but also problems with the sciatic nerve, swollen legs, troubled sleep. On the one hand, it was better that way. She hadn't relapsed into the temptation of devoting fully mind and soul to housework, then burst as she had the first time.

She had taken everything with more phlegm, and in the end, obviously, it had been the best solution.

She perched on the kitchen stool, while the microwave warmed up her milk. Then she realized that wasn't the ideal position to be comfortable. So she took the warm milk, poured in some honey and moved to the living room couch, where she crouched. She felt like listening to some music. Where was her mp3 player with the headphones? She wandered up and down, always very quietly, around the lower floor. She went upstairs trying to make no noise. But when she passed in front of Elettra's room, she heard that her friend was not sleeping at all, rather she was on the phone, speaking in a low voice to someone.

Futura paused. Ted had called so late? The tone, however, was very placid. Actually it seemed that Elettra was even laughing. Could she and Ted have become a team? Maybe. In a moment, though, she recalled Philip's words, "I think your friend has someone else." Was it possible? Driven by curiosity, Futura got closer to the door to listen. It was not her habit to do so, but on this occasion she could not help herself.

"Jaden" she heard distinctly "you shouldn't say such things!" Elettra was chuckling like a little girl. "Yes, my darling, I too can't wait to hug you again... Yeah, me too... You don't know what I'd do to you, little piggy..."

"Little piggy"? Futura winced, shocked. Hardly she would get back to sleep that night. At that point, it was impossible. Not only Elettra had a lover, but it was even a quite dirty lover, judging from the ten-seconds conversation she had overheard. She walked away quickly. She wasn't willing to listen to more obscenities. She went back to the couch, found the tablet on the table and switched it on to read an e-book. But her mind was elsewhere.

Since when Elettra had another man? And when was she going to tell her? Weren't the two of them friends? Weren't they supposed to be honest with each other? So why did this "Piggy-Jaden" only pop up now? Why did she have to discover his existence by chance? Futura felt betrayed. And if she felt betrayed, she wondered how poor Ted would feel. Jealous, obsessive... Elettra had turned up in her house several weeks ago and had done nothing but defaming the father of her daughter, but she had never made any reference about the presence of a Jaden in her life. Maybe Ted was really haunting and full of flaws and, and maybe that was the reason why Elettra had been driven into the arms of another man. But if so, why not say that at once? Why had Elettra had staged that scene? To come out clean, when in fact she wasn't?

She remembered the other words of Philip, "When you all will be convinced that Ted is a horrible person, she will come up with a better alternative." Was it possible?

Futura felt a wave of anger climb along her back and strikeg her whole body. Was Elettra really that kind of person? So in whom had she placed her trust in the last ten years? She angrily switched the tablet off. She got up, moved a curtain. It was still pitch dark outside. She turned back to curl up on the couch. Behind her was Elettra.

"Ah," Futura shouted, wincing, her nerves on edge.

"Love, did I scare you?" her friend asked.

"A little, yes."

"Can't you sleep?"

"No, indeed I can't."

"Then let's sit down, let's talk." Elettra took her arm and led her to the sofa.

"Okay," Futura took a breath. She thought she had to say something, put her before the evidence and see how she reacted.

"While we're at it, I should tell you something," Elettra anticipated her. She wondered if some kind of confession was coming. Maybe her friend was going to give her a plausible explanation. "In the coming days a colleague of mine will come to London. His name's Jaden, a pretty easygoing guy. Would it be a problem if I invited him here, one day or another? I'd like you to meet him. I think you'd like him."

33.

London

"What a nerve! Oh God, Patrick, what a nerve! You should have heard her! 'A colleague of mine, a pretty easygoing guy'... 'Easygoing!' A 'little piggy' to whom she 'would not know what to do!' And who knows what she had done already! And she brings him here, passing him off as a nice acquaintance! Do you realize? So next time, when she'll tell us the two of them became an item, we won't be surprised! Oh my God, honey, you see? And I feel like an imbecile, an idiot! What kind of friend do I have? In whom did I put my trust so far? In sneaky people, capable of lying without shame! I feel so stupid, love, so silly! Also because, then, when she asked him if she could introduce him to us, I wasn't able to say anything! I couldn't even object! I was really speechless! At the very least I want to know this guy for whom she made poor Ted loose his mind, poor fellow!"

Futura was ranting in their bedroom, seized by a terrible agitation, looking for the complicity of her husband who, sitting on the bed with his back leaning against the header, stood silent witness to the outburst.

"You were right from the start, Elettra was misbehaving, she turned out to be completely different from what I thought she was! Now what am I supposed to do? Throw her out of the house? Tell her that she isn't the person I believed and therefore I don't consider her as a friend anymore? Or turn a blind eye and pretend, exactly like she does? After all she did nothing wrong to me, did she? What do you say? What should I do?"

Patrick was made of stone. If his wife stirred so much for the insincere behavior of her friend, who knows what she would say when she found out what he was hiding.

"Now calm down, though, otherwise your pressure rises and we'll have to rush to the hospital," he said, putting his hands on her shoulders. "Sit down here next to me. You know what we do today? If you feel like walking, we take Marina and go to the Tate Modern. There is a contemporary art exhibition that I would love to visit with you. Do you want to go?"

"You know what?" Futura calmed down and smiled. "Gladly! It's been so long since we last spent a day of pure fun together. I can't wait for you to charm me with your explanations, my little professor! After all that's how you won me, isn't it? Letting me know, with your lovely gab, all of the mysteries of cubism."

Patrick smiled too. He wished that day could help him preventively regain his wife. At least it would create a beautiful memory, a moment to regret.

At the Tate Modern, Patrick gave the best of him. He completed, with his previous knowledge, the explanations provided by the headset of the guided tour. Futura listened to him admired and charmed, as always happened in those occasions. In two areas her husband knew absolutely everything, computing applied to robotics and telecommunications, and art history. The first passion was innate, the second inherited from his mother Marjorie, who in her youth had studied history of art and architecture in Italy, where she had met Gualtiero, Patrick's father. Futura had never understood anything about computing, neither she tried to, but she had let herself be charmed over time by the second area, and now some notion had stuck. In the end she had even taken a liking to it, even though he remained the unchallenged expert. But she certainly did not mind leaving the throne to him. As much Patrick grew excited about sharing his culture, albeit in a very humble and never pedantic way, as much Futura was fascinated when he opened his mouth, so the satisfaction had always been mutual.

At the end of the visit they walked along the river, then ate a snack at a creperia in Southwark Street.

"Great afternoon," she said, as they were coming back. "I just need to lay down a bit now. But my mood is skyrocketing. Today I even learned something new. Thank you, my love," she said, stroking a locket of hair that fell on his temples and kissing his cheek.

Then he felt the need to ask, "Will you always love me like this?", but he restrained himself. It was a stupid question. She would say yes, of course, because she did not know what was happening behind her back. But once Allison's existence came to the surface, everything would be put into question. Everything. And he had a heavy heart. Sadness had expanded in his chest like a wildfire.

They were on the threshold of their house when Patrick's phone rang. It was Ted.

"Why do you think he's calling me?" he asked Futura. "Maybe Elettra no longer wants to answer him?"

Anyway, he took the call.

"Hello, Ted, how are you?" Even that seemed a stupid question.

"Hello Patrick," replied the other, with the most unhappy voice they had ever heard coming from his mouth. "I'm calling you for a reason that I hoped would never happen. It is with great regret that I must announce you that Luis' execution has been scheduled."

Patrick gasped.

"Oh, Ted, no! When?"

"On the 11th of November."

34.

Atmore, Alabama

In the cold of his cell, Luis Crawford was eating the dinner he had been served at early mid-afternoon and thinking that that horrible concoction, chock full of peanut butter, for better or for worse would be one of the last. He had been told quite recently and he could not stop thinking about it. On the one hand, it did not seem yet true. He had been in prison for fifteen years, with a death sentence dating back to fourteen years ago, which until then had just been an ominous phrase uttered in a courtroom. Sure, at first, almost fifteen years ago, despair overwhelmed him, dropping him in an unmatched depression, but then, slowly, he had learned to live with that sentence. Sentenced to death, but who wasn't? And from that day, the desire to keep existing had taken hold of him. There was still hope, not all was lost and, consequently, he had spent months and years on jurisprudence books studying his own case, preparing his own defense. They all did that, around there. All the inmates in the death ward spent their time bent over books, partly because they had nothing better to do, but mostly because they knew they had to defend themselves, if they wanted to have a chance of surviving. Public defenders cared nothing about them; they worked for the Supreme Court and had every intention of advancing their careers. A paid lawyer would cost hundreds of thousands of dollars, and almost none of the inmates in the death row could afford it. However, as long as the trial allowed a new appeal, hope, feebler and feebler, was still there. But after losing the last appeal, an aura of foreboding had engulfed him. A new trial would require a lot of money, that Luis did not have. When the last request was rejected, everything started to become real. At that point it was only a matter of time. In fact, shortly after, the scheduled date for the execution had been disclosed to him. He didn't trust his lawyers anymore. They kept ranting about last-minute appeals, requests for pardon, plans to save his life as incomprehensible and obscure as inconsistent. But Luis knew they were bluffing, it was just a smokescreen. November 11 would come, and there was absolutely nothing he could do. A silent despair had now got the hold of him. He had had fourteen years to prepare, yet he wasn't ready. He had lost sleep over the last few days. To avoid getting crazy, all he could do was keep hoping, for a miracle. And as long as he was alive, there was still hope.

During his years in prison, Luis had found faith. He believed in Heaven, although he was not sure it would be open for him. He prayed every day, to save himself, for God to forgive his sins, for the family of the boy he killed to find peace, and for the strength to face what was waiting for him.

Yet the thought that November 12 would never begin for him terrorized him, chilled the blood in his veins. Had he done all he had to do? Had he settled everything? There wasn't much time left.

Everyone must die. But being sure to die imprisoned in a bed, in an aseptic room with bright tiles, with a drip of poison into his arm on a November morning, under the eyes of some friend on the other side of the glass, was something he didn't like at all. He would rather pass out on a May evening in a wheat field under the warm rays of the setting sun.

35.

London

Futura began to cry uncontrollably upon receiving the news. Patrick was overwhelmed and completely unable to contain his desperation. Luis, Ted's younger brother, would be executed soon, with a minimum notice, and he could not believe it. She had deluded herself into thinking that that day would never come, and now there it was, around the corner. Patrick tried to comfort her, but he knew what she was feeling, because he felt the same.

Futura and Patrick had been Luis' pen pals for almost eight years, that is since when they met Ted, shortly after they had become a couple. They wrote him letters – strictly on paper – on a monthly basis and sent their photos. When Marina was born, they immediately sent him her picture, and now they periodically updated him about the growing belly.

In recent correspondence they had felt he was more somber than usual, in fact, but still willing to fight. From there to think that the end was so near it was a long step.

"If it really had to happen, why now?" Futura kept crying. "Why now? Why exactly at the time of the birth?"

The fact was that she and Patrick had promised to be there when it happened. Many times they had thought of getting on a plane and fly all the way to Alabama to visit their friend, but they had never done that. Surely they wanted to do that in the days before the execution. But now, so close to the delivery, Futura certainly could not fly and Patrick would never leave her in her situation. So they would never meet in person.

"He will never even see Emma" she kept despairing. "He will not even see a photo once! What we can do for him now?"

"We not much" Patrick opened his arms. "But we can send him an extra parcel, we can buy him better food for his last few days. Indeed, I'll turn on the PC and immediately send him a bank transfer. On the other hand, maybe Mac can help. I'll call him immediately and explain everything."

Futura nodded and mentally wondered if Elettra already knew what was happening in Alabama. In the meantime, however, she didn't even seem to be home.

36.

Turin

He had not liked making love with Fabiana that afternoon. She had been willing and simpering, but he really wasn't in the mood. So, done what he had to, Iago was slightly frowning in his bed, smoking a beloved cigarette.

"Definitely men have no idea of how to cuddle a woman," Fabiana complained, reluctantly putting her clothes back on. After the act he hadn't been tender at all and she hadn't liked it. Then she had been seized by her own bad mood. A feeling of uncertainty pervaded her. Why did Iago behave like that every now and then? Didn't he want to be with her anymore? Yet he was working so hard for their holiday. "Want to take a stroll?" she suggested.

He nodded absently.

His mother Ornella liked Fabiana enough. With an excuse, she had managed to meet her so-called mother-in-law as quickly as possible. She knew she could win mothers and she was right. Not that Ornella worshiped her, but she tolerated her more than Iago's previous unlikely friends and girlfriends. Because she was pretty, she had a clean look, a reasonable attitude. And she had a job, a steady job. So, on paper, she was the ideal girl, and even Iago knew that. Too bad for all those insecurities that made her somewhat suffocating.

In fact he was also a bit mad at her. That afternoon he had been supposed to study with Elena. Then Fabiana had called him, asking him to join her, even if it was not in the plans, because she was depressed, because she needed him, so he had taken pity and found an excuse with her friend at the last moment. For sure she hadn't appreciated it, but she hadn't said anything. So he had agreed with Elena to meet in the evening, he would go to her later, even though it would not be the same, even though they were both going to be more tired. But the fifth chapter had to be learned anyway. He wondered if at least he had improved Fabiana's mood. At the end of the story, she had looked more upset when he was leaving than when he had arrived.

And he had risked being exposed, because Elena had sent him a text, "What time did you say you're coming? I don't remember. I'm studying a bit already, even if Tommy keeps calling me :-)", with a nice smiling emoticon, and Fabiana had intercepted it.

"Who's writing you?" she had said grabbing Iago's phone and immediately peering inside it.

"Elio, that classmate of mine, the one I have to see tonight." To be sure, he had stored Elena in the phone book under a male name.

"And he sends you emoticons? Is he gay, maybe? Who's Tommy?"

"Tommy is another classmate, a pedantic one, calling a million times because he wants to be sure he has studied everything."

"But is Elio gay?"

"Stop it."

"Will you introduce me to him? You know, I'd love to have a gay friend. They say gay men understand women better."

"Maybe one day I'll introduce you to him. Sooner or later. "

"Sure he's not trying to hit on you? Should I be worried?"

"I think that Elio, apart from anything else, prefers Tommy," he concluded, saying the only real thing of that conversation, though encrypted. "And stop always sticking your nose in my business. I can't stand it."

They went to take a hot chocolate. When he left she seemed even more depressed and out of sorts. Iago assumed that the emotional help he had granted her joining her in the afternoon hadn't had the expected effect. Maybe he shouldn't have humored her request, that might have been better for both. Sometimes it seemed to him that Fabiana was unable to live away from him. But how had she done in the first twenty years of her life, before they met?

"Why don't you stay for dinner? My folks aren't here. Or we might go out for a pizza if you prefer."

"Fabi" he repeated, fed up, "we've already been together all afternoon. Now I must study, you know."

She seemed to have tears in her eyes.

"It's just that sometimes it seems you don't want to be with me as much as I do..."

"Come on, Fabi, what more should I do?!" he said, losing patience. "You called me and I ran to you! But now I have other things to do," then, softening, "I'll call you before going to sleep, come on."

Fabiana nodded.

"Okay." And she let him go. "Sorry."

It had been a hard afternoon and, in some ways, the evening was going to be the same. Iago went to the Daycare where Elena was staying. He greeted Massimo, the manager, who was also a great friend of his sister Futura, and went in. Elena greeted him with a tight smile.

"I have a terrible toothache, I took a pain reliever, it should pass soon. Come on, sit down and let's study." But she was clearly sick, unfocused. "I should go to the dentist, maybe I should have gone earlier, but who had the money?"

When Iago went back to the car, his nerves where on edge. A day practically lost. He had crossed half of Turin trying to cheer up Fabiana and help Elena to study. The results had been equal to zero in both cases. Maybe just a little decent smoke in his room would soothe his soul. He could not wait to be home.

37.

London

"Come in, Mac," Patrick said opening the door.

"Tell me, what can I do for you?" the actor asked with care. "When you called me it sounded like a serious thing. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I told you on the phone. The issue doesn't concern us directly, but a friend, Luis, Ted's brother."

"If I can do something, you know, friends of my friends are my friends..." Mac assured him, out of breath, sitting on the couch. "What's wrong with this Luis, how can I help him?"

"Luis is a big fan of yours and would like to meet you as soon as possible, before he dies."

"Dies? Poor guy, he is sick?"

"No, Mac," Patrick shook his head, pouring some bubbly water into three glasses. "Luis is in very good health, but he's about to be executed in a prison in Alabama."

Mac put down his glass.

"Oh my God."

Then he cleared his throat.

"How come?"

"A brawl, fifteen years ago, he was drunk and had snorted coke, and someone died."

Mac immediately showed all his discomfort. Patrick and Futura, who were watching him, didn't understand the reason immediately. He explained.

"I don't know if I can, in all honesty. The favor you're asking me is no small thing," he coughed again. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not for death penalty, for heaven's sake. It is a practice I don't like at all. But this guy killed someone, he's in jail because he's guilty. It would be different if his conviction had been unjust, if there were serious doubts about his responsibilities. But honestly I can't associate my name with that of a murderer. I'd rather give support to the families of the victims, at best."

"You could meet him without making it public," Patrick said. "You don't have to fit it into your professional meetings."

"Even then, once there, what should I tell him? Should I pat his back and wish him a good death? I don't even know him, this person."

"But we do, Mac, and I assure you that Luis is a good man," Futura pressed him. "A delightful person, indeed."

"A delightful person who killed someone! Do you realize the absurdity you are saying?"

"Mac," Patrick looked at him straight in the eyes. "Luis is not a hardened criminal. He's not a madman nor a man suffering from mental disorders. Luis is a person who made a mistake when he was twenty, a big, huge, unheard of mistake, and now he's paying the consequences."

Mac looked down.

"Don't misunderstand me," Patrick went on. "I'm not justifying what he did, nor saying that everything should end singing Kumbaya. Luis did wrong and deserves to pay, staying in prison forever, if it must be so. But, that said, we assure you that aside from that he is a completely normal person. He's not a monster. We've been receiving letters from him for eight years and he's one of the best pen pals we've ever had."

"The truth is different from what they show us, you know, Mac?" Futura explained. "There are many things that should be said about inmates in the death row, and I'm going to tell you a few, so you can have an idea about it, because probably you ignore what really happens there. For a starter, the States more horny with capital punishment are southern ones, where racism is still widespread. Texas is one of the worst, but Florida is no joke either. In fact, the majority of sentenced are black, or otherwise belonging to ethnic minorities, who are often sentenced only for trivial reasons, not necessarily related to murder. Rarely a white man who killed a black man is punished with death; for example, in Georgia it never happened. There is a different treatment for a black man who kills a white man, especially if the jury is made of white people. Basically, one of the main criteria of death penalty is racism. We are in the twenty-first century, it seems incredible, but that's how it is. You are given a different punishment depending on who you are and who you kill. And not just that. Murder is not the only reason for which this kind of sentence is applied! In Alabama, where Luis lives, for example, death penalty is applied in case of murder, but also of robbery and rape! Do you realize? Alabama sentences to death even wretches who never killed anyone, but maybe robbed a supermarket out of desperation or anger! You can see that for the same offense, a white man has certainly more chances to escape death than a black man. And Luis, in case you didn't realize, is black, even though he is a confessed murderer. Moreover, in his case, the sentence is for manslaughter under the influence of psychotropic substances."

"Well, but, in the end, the result is the same. The poor guy he killed died all the same."

"Yes, of course, but try to grasp the concept. We are trying to make you understand that the State of Alabama equates serial killers, brutal criminals, street thugs, mentally ill lowlife and condemns them all to the gallows without distinction, neither in judgment nor of treatment in prison, provided they have the right requirements of race and poverty. Given that we are against death penalty regardless, this is not justice for us" Futura added on. "In Italy not even mafiosi end like that! Then there would be a lot to say about the life conditions of the prisoners in the death row. I think animals would receive better cares. They have only one hour a day of freedom, they eat and sleep at preposterous times. If they get sick, the cares they receive leave a lot to be desired."

"What would they want? A stay at a spa?" Mac remarked, argumentative. "It's obvious that life on death row is tough. Life in prison is hard, in general. In every prison in the world."

"We tell you what we know of the American situation. We also know that there are even worst places in the world, but that doesn't justify what happens. Even in Italy, where there is no death penalty, prisons are a big problem for the appalling conditions in which people locked in them live. But in Italy the discomfort stems from the disorganization and the indifference of the institutions, while in America it's a precise strategy. So prisoners are beaten and abused for fabricated reasons by warders who put themselves on display for their severity to make a career. And if the guards are black, sometimes they are even fiercer, especially in the most racist states, such as Texas or Alabama, because they want to prove to be on the side of the system. In prison there is no air conditioning, in summer they die of heat, in winter they freeze to death, even if there is heating. Food served in prisons is of very poor quality and poor sanitation. Ted told us that once an attendant in charge of distributing the food trays had a widespread herpes on his hands. Doesn't it disgust you?"

"Guys, it's a prison! Not the Grand Hotel! And what would be the purpose of such 'precise strategy'?"

"Mac!" Futura was about to lose patience. Emma, inside her, felt her anger and kicked. "We're talking about basic human rights! The inmates are people! The problem is that prisons should be re-education and rehabilitation places. 'Correctional Institution' is what they call them in the United States. But with such treatment it makes no sense talking about recovery, because there is no will of recovery by those who should manage the place. On the contrary, there is a very specific intention of making prisoners feel like abject beings, like animals, turning them into the monsters that maybe they weren't before. This is the 'clear strategy'; 'You are beasts, and we treat you like you deserve,' this is the message, until they convince themselves that the system is right. Because death penalty exists because of a principle of revenge that in the United States is not felt as a sin, but as a value. 'I ruin and then take the life of the person who previously ruined mine, and this is right.' Simple, isn't it? This is culturally very distant from what we believe."

Mac said, "These are heavy accusations, do you realize it?"

"Look," Patrick interjected, "we know what we say. For years we have been trying to offer Luis a more comfortable life, sending him twenty-five dollars vouchers through internet, that he can spend on better food, or items that make his detention more acceptable, such as music players, which are one of the few allowed gadgets. Prisoners on death row have a really hard life, they are guarded at sight..."

"I wonder why..." Mac objected sarcastically.

"If they misbehave, or if the guards say they did, they are punished not only with beatings but also with the suspension of these small extras. After all, if you think about it, the punishment should be the loss of freedom, not dignity. I think that going crazy in there is easy," Patrick went on.

"Still they eat for free, no matter how badly..."

"On the contrary, inmates on death row are worth the state more than you might think," Futura immediately corrected him. "Maybe they are a big outlay, financially speaking, as demonstrated by a study by Duke University. But each execution is also a manifesto of how much power the state has on crime. Every time they kill one of them – and by the way in Alabama lethal injection exists only since 2002, before there was the electric chair – they boast they cleaned up the scum of the world, but believe me, it's not like that. In fact, how many cases, in retrospect, turn out to be miscarriages of justice? How many times the court prefers to quickly sentence 'a' felon instead of the felon? Before the execution, however, in exchange for an inhuman treatment, maybe the state has exploited for years the work of its prisoners without any form of retribution."

"Also because," Patrick pointed out "between the first sentence and the actual execution there are decades, and between an appeal and the next these inmates spend on death row even more than thirty years. At this point, do you think it makes sense to execute a person for a crime committed three decades before? Don't you think that in the meantime someone might have changed and grown, and maybe repented and converted? That they might no longer be the same who committed the crime?" And saying that he looked at his friend straight in the eyes. "But we talked about this once, right?" he added, referring to the conversation of a few days before concerning the supposed fatherhood of which he had become aware much later. "Luis committed that manslaughter, and I stressed it was unintentional, exactly fifteen years ago. Someone might well have done other things in fifteen years, right? He might have taken a completely different road," he stated with an angry note, thinking about himself as well. "And, I repeat, I am not saying that a murderer should be given a prize, indeed, far from it."

Mac looked down definitively.

"Patrick is absolutely right," said Futura. "There are times in life when you think you could kill someone who did something horrible. A few months ago, before I knew I was pregnant, I was with Marina and I was the victim of an aggression. An armed man threatened my daughter and I, had I had the strength at the time, with the anger I felt, would have really hurt him. If I had been able to kill him, maybe I would have. Pointing a knife at the neck of a two year old girl is a monstrous act against which I wanted to rebel by any means, abundantly sinning of excess self-defense. Then, fortunately, Philip arrived, and with his professionalism he knocked him out with no need to kill him." She smiled.

"Really?" Mac was amazed.

"And luckily, because once the anger subsided I realized that it was wrong anyway, that you can't fight violence with violence. So I believe that state murder, in cold blood, years and years after the crime, is an abomination."

"Yeah, maybe," Mac hesitated, adjusting on his nose the black-rimmed glasses that framed his bright blue eyes.

"Mac, I'm sorry if we involved you... Sorry if we made you come here to explain you the background of the so-called American justice. Maybe we shouldn't have," Patrick sad at some point, backing down.

Mac sniffed.

"Assuming you're right, assuming that U.S. prisons are full of gentlemen and wrongly convicted saints..."

"I've never said this, Mac," Patrick fumed. "I just said there is everything in there, and that most of the people who are locked up in there don't have anything monstrous and don't deserve the inhumane treatment they receive. They are just people who made mistakes and that maybe over the years, locked in meditation, realized that and amended it. This is the aim of imprisonment, isn't it? Prevent the offenders from repeating the offense and help them understand its gravity."

"Easy to repent in hindsight... There are those, though, that cannot be recovered," Mac objected.

"Some of course, are not recoverable. Some are rooted in evil, either by culture or by nature, they only have cruelty in their hearts and will not be subject to any improvement. Most of them will, though," Patrick said. "At eighteen, at twenty, you can make a mistake, after drinking too much or snorting coke, and it can have serious consequences that you must pay for the rest of your life. Or maybe not, if you're lucky," he added with a sad inflection, because he was thinking about himself as well.

"There's mistake and mistake, though," Mac fumed, understanding perfectly what his friend meant. "Not all those who get drunk or snort coke kill people or rob stores!"

"But it is a fact that substances that alter consciousness and hallucinogens induce psychotic behaviors that normally would never be considered. How many crimes occur under the influence of drugs? But a mistake, especially in youth, as serious as it might be, is not necessarily an indication of inherent malice or cruelty, but rather of ignorance, immaturity, irresponsibility, selfishness, self-centeredness. Of course those who make mistakes should be punished, but not demonized. However I think you can have a life worth something even paying your mistakes with a life sentence, if you achieve an awareness of your own limits and understand the seriousness of what you have done."

"Okay, let's say you're right on everything... That Luis is or has become a decent person, and everything else... Even if I went down there, as a mere hypothesis... what could I say to this man, on the eve of his death? And I don't even know him..."

"We understand all your hesitations, Mac," said Futura, immediately. "And that's why we thought we'd lend you some of the letter that Luis wrote us over the years, so you can know him a bit as well. There's nothing secret because censorship in prison is heavy and nothing of what we wrote was really between the three of us... Besides, you should know that at first we were embarrassed too. We didn't know what to say to such a person. All our problems seemed trivial compared to his. But soon we realized that Luis just needed normality. So we simply started describing him our daily life, and he did the same to us. You will find that he's a boy with a great desire to live, sometimes sad and understandably depressed, but never self-pitying."

Mac pocketed the letters, hesitant.

"Guys, I can't promise anything for now."

"Think about it, Mac. But not too, much because Luis has no time," Patrick concluded, walking him to the door.

38.

London

Mac had been gone by two minutes when Futura and Patrick heard the door open again. There was a lively chatter and laughter.

"You guys are in the house?" Elettra asked, crossing the threshold, with Cindy in her arms. "Can I come in? Are you presentable? I'm in company."

Futura suspiciously put her head out of the kitchen.

"Who's with you?" she asked.

"You know that colleague of mine I mentioned this morning, who was to come to London?" she went on chatty and cheerful. "Well, he's here, but the B&B he had booked messed things up, so for tonight he's left without a roof to sleep under, and I was wondering if by any chance he could..."

Futura froze completely. Patrick, going downstairs, immediately stopped the enthusiasm of his guest.

"You don't know anything yet, do you?"

"About what?" Elettra went on, undeterred. "Anyway, he is Jaden Smithers, they are Futura and Patrick."

Futura felt like retching. In front of her there was a tall and bulky man, with broad shoulders and a big head. And he was white. Ted had never been particularly attractive, but that guy wasn't that better. If at least Elettra's lover had been an Adonis...

"Hey, what a beautiful baby bump," he said, laughing coarsely and addressing Futura, with a chewing gum between his teeth. "When will the dangerous inmate escape?" He talked about the fetus about to be born. He could not have done a worse joke.

Patrick addressed directly Elettra, "This afternoon Ted called, and about this we should tell you something in private."

"Omygod" she said, putting a hand on her forehead and looking up, "he ended up bothering you as well? However Jaden knows my unfortunate situation, so you can speak in front of him."

"As you wish," said Futura, who had further hardened. "In that case you should know that Ted didn't even mention your name, he didn't make the slightest allusion to you, he simply informed us that the governor of Alabama signed the death sentence for Luis for the 11th of November."

"Oh, damn" Elettra had a moment of uncertainty. "I'm sorry. I didn't think that the time would come so soon. In fact, I almost believed it never would. Every time a trial ended, a new one started. Isn't there any more appeal, now?"

"Apparently not," said Futura, dry.

"Well, that is the law, right?" interjected Jaden. "Sooner or later the day had to come, it's not that it could be postponed forever. Otherwise, if that guy died of old age, what sort of death penalty would it be?"

Futura eyed that guy squinting. Philip had been right on everything except one point; the alternative to the much-maligned Ted could never look better than Ted himself. Jaden was a big, burly American man, with a square jaw and a thin nose, embodying the perfect stereotype of the self-confident Yankee full of himself, one of those who feel superior to the rest of the world. He probably voted Republican and he was a hypocrite conservative, one of those who deny the right to abortion, but who are in favor of death penalty and the war in Iraq, Afghanistan and anywhere else in the world the United States had decided to assert themselves. One of those who ate three-centimeters-tall steaks and greasy French fries with mayonnaise. And it was Ted who fed in an unhealthy way. And, finally, with that leather waistcoat and the chewing gum in his mouth, he had to be terribly boorish as well. Far from a "little piggy", that man looked like a giant hog. Therefore, he was completely intolerable to her, from every point of view.

"You know what, Elettra?" Futura hissed, snorting through her nose, in the grip of a rage as blind as it was cold. "I know a hotel near here that would be really pleased to accommodate your friend for tonight and for the nights to come at a very low price. In fact, you know what? It could accommodate all three of you. I'm calling them and book on your behalf. One room is enough, right? It seems to me that you and Jaden are close enough."

39.

London

Futura's relentlessness in throwing her friend out the house had thrown Patrick into the darkest anguish and frightened him to death. Elettra's grievances had availed to nothing.

"Why do you treat me like this? What have I done? Why are you mad at me? I don't think I did you any harm," she had justified herself.

But Futura was completely unsympathetic.

"Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I'm completely stupid and that you can fool me? You see me so naive? Bringing your sleazy lover so shamelessly in my house without even telling me how things are! Shame on you!"

But Elettra, in truth, just did not see the problem, and that had been the straw that definitely broke the camel's back.

Then, when Marina and Cindy, in the midst of the storm, had burst into tears in unison, Elettra had decided to leave, packing a bag on the fly. She could come and get the rest of her stuff later.

Now, at the end of that long and exhausting day, Patrick was looking at his wife sitting in bed, still trembling with anger.

"Do you realize the nerve she had? Do you realize? Acting out so much about how Ted was a bastard, an obsessive stalker, and then, in the end, the only one at fault was her, having sex with that jerk! And she didn't even seem to realize the gravity of the thing," she repeated, biting down a fingernail to ruin.

"And don't you think you might be able to forgive her, afterward? Would you really throw a relationship... that is, a friendship that lasted for more than ten years down the drain?" he asked, scared.

"I don't know. Definitely I'm not forgiving her now! Because the most serious thing is her lies! She lied to me, she told me a lot of nonsense and for what? Just to look better than she is, just not to look bad, not to seem like a bitch! I can't stand this, I can't stand the fact that she's taken me for a fool. And you know what hurts me? That perhaps she is even right, I'm really stupid, because someone who tells stories like that, who knows how many times lied to me with me none the wiser! I thought she was distinctly different from how she is. I was completely wrong about her. And I'm also disappointed by myself because I didn't understand. Maybe one day I might even forgive her, but things will never be like they were. I have lost confidence in her."

Futura did not realize how pale her husband was when he tenderly pulled her against his chest and said, "I will not deny that I'm glad we no longer have that messy girl around here. Now, however, try to relax and sleep. I'll massage your back."

She followed the advice and soon fell asleep. He, failing to do the same, kept watching her as her breathing became slower and more regular. He wondered what would happen to him once his wife found out the whole truth about Allison. Because, as he had also told Mac during their conversation about Luis, the sins of the past must undoubtedly be paid for, but he still didn't know the price.

40.

Atmore, Alabama

Luis put aside the book he had finished, even if he had lost the thread a bit in the last pages. Was it worth starting another? Would he be able to finish before the 11th of November? Would he have the necessary concentration to read it? There were so many books he had planned to devour, that he had had brought to his cell. Surely he would not be able to read them all. So he had to choose. But which one, or which ones? What did really interest him, while he was still alive?

In the last few days, after the execution date had been set, many friends had written to him. Then campaigns and petitions to save his life had been started. The lawyer, the one he did no longer trust at all, had reassured him, "The pardon, if it comes, comes at the last second. We need to get closer to the scheduled day for the number of signatures to be conspicuous, for your case to come to the fore in newspapers, social networks and so on, so that, therefore, something stirs in the highest circles. At the time you are not a priority yet. Only with much noise over the media, the Supreme Court may decide to review your case and grant you a new trial."

Maybe he was right, but in the meantime days passed.

Meanwhile he had been weighed, in order to properly dose the quantity of lethal substance needed to stop his heart in a few minutes. He carried around about three hundred and fifty pounds. He had never been slim, but, like so many other prisoners, standing still for years, had accrued a remarkable mass and gained further weight. Who knew how much poison would be needed for him. It would be an expensive execution, the state of Alabama would have a significant expense. The thought of making the executioner sweat, of makomg his work difficult, tore from him a bitter smile.

But then they had taken his measurements to tailor the dress for his burial. That had been humiliating, even more than stepping on the scales. It had made him think that the state of Alabama was doing all it could for him, it was making plans to erase him from the face of the earth and gloriously archive his case. He was just to do its part and die, preferably with a minimum of dignity. As if it were simple. As if it were natural.

It was as if they were making arrangements for a party, of which he was the protagonist, albeit unwillingly. Because for sure someone would rejoice for his death. Vengeance would be served. Justice? Who knows. According to the relatives of the boy he had killed, probably revenge and justice were one and the same. In America it was a widespread concept. It was not enough that he had repented for what he had done. They wanted his blood and would not be sated until they obtained it.

So he could not say exactly what frightened him the most, whether the idea of closing his eyes and never wake up, to stop existing to migrate to a paradise that perhaps was barred to him, or that of finding himself tied to a bed, with a diaper between his legs and the eyes of those who hated him focused on him.

None of the relatives of his victim had forgiven him, and it had been their obstinacy that had brought him to the gallows. So what would the greatest punishment be? Stop living or facing those people, knowing that they would rejoice and laugh when he, at his last breath, would defecate himself?

And what would be, at the end of it all, his real punishment for killing a guy his age during a brawl? Going straight to hell? Making a show of his death, ceasing to exist, or having lived fifteen years in a hideous place with that tremendous prospect?

What was, in the end, the biggest trial to face? Death, or life in those conditions? Maybe the worst was already behind? Maybe the passing, all in all fast and liberating, would be the least?

And if he went to hell for stabbing that man under the effect of drugs, where would the relatives of the victim go, when they ceased to live in turn? Would God really treat them better than him? Didn't they want him dead? Wasn't what they wanted to do a murder as well, and in cold blood even?

But Luis was not looking for excuses or loopholes and was not kind to himself. Many times he thought that after all the boy's family was right. He was a monster, and his death would heal their suffering. Their hate was understandable, but it hurt him.

Then he remembered that God was good and merciful, that Jesus had forgiven everyone, that with his blood He had washed away all the sins of men. Jesus too was sentenced to death, though unjustly. He too went through that hell; He too offered his body to those who hated him, even though he was innocent. So perhaps the hard trial he, guilty, had to undergo might make sense... and maybe there was hope even for him, if Jesus, on the other side, would welcome him in his arms... But truly his death would compensate the victim's family? At that point, Luis prayed for peace to come down in his heart and in those of the people who would never forgive him.

Because Luis hoped that the Johnson family would forgive him, but he, probably, hadn't yet forgiven himself.

41.

Turin

"I don't understand why we two are here talking about it, Giovanni," said Teresa, sitting in front of him in the canteen. "It's useless that you keep wandering around the place like a zombie regretting the past. Manuela always asks me about you, you always think about her; well, meet her. Talk to her. Hang out again. Sum things up. Make an abstract. Find a common ground."

"I don't know," he hesitated, unsure, cutting an escalope. "Things haven't worked so far."

"Make them work! Commit! Marriage is hard, isn't it?" Teresa insisted, biting into a loaf of bread. "Look, you have been kind to me, about the suit against my father and my sister. Now I'd like to give you a hand. I want you to explain me how you got to this point, you and your lovely wife."

"I think you're idealizing Manuela a bit too much. On the one hand I understand you. For a long time I did that too..."

"Do you have anything to do tonight?"

"Not at all, honestly."

"Then come and dine with me. I'll write you my address. So we face the subject outside from the mess of this canteen. Ah, do you like curry? Because I'm going to go heavy with Indian cuisine."

Giovanni mused to himself that Manuela was crazy about that kind of kitchen. He wondered whether there were other things in common between his wife and Teresa.

42.

London

Once the anger against Elettra subsided a little, Futura's thoughts went to Luis. She wondered how that poor man could feel at the time. She wrote him a letter, but instead of mailing it she would e-mail it to Ted, so he could bring it to him by hand. Otherwise it might not reach him in time. Their friend had run from New York to Alabama and was going to stay there until the day of the funeral. Meanwhile he was exploiting every single visit permit granted to him to see his brother.

Futura tried to empathize with Luis. What was he feeling at that moment? How could he feel? Terrified, maybe. Depressed, almost for sure. How could they make him feel better? She wondered whether Mac would decide to pay him that visit. It would have been a good and meritorious thing. He just had to go over some understandable prejudices.

Pondering about Luis' state of mind, a comparison that was almost blasphemous came to her mind. If she had to look for similarities between what was happening to the prisoner at the time and something she knew well because she had lived it, she thought back to her university exams. The tension with which she loaded herself before an interrogation was so huge that she spent all of the previous weeks thinking about "that day". There was only "that day". She never hung out, she woke up to study, she was bent over books from morning to evening and her pauses, her moments of leisure, the time she spent for breathing, everything was calibrated depending on how long the chapter she was learning was. "That day" would mark the end of something and a new beginning: hell, if the exam went bad, or heaven, if everything finished in glory. As the date approached, it got worse. The inner suffering that pervaded her became physical at some point. From then onwards she stopped sleeping at night, which loaded her of additional stress and depression. Before an exam Futura could not even say whether the sky was blue, and in her head it was generally gray. The worst came a moment before getting in front of the professor who was supposed to examine her. At that point, panic was pure, distilled. Her mouth became dry, her hands trembled. Then the interrogation ended, mostly in a dignified way, if not quite well. Heaven, then.

In past times, before meeting Luis, Futura had thought about the days of the exams as days of death and rebirth. The state of prostration in which she ended up would end exactly after the exam, in one way or the other, so she feared that moment, but on the other hand she also wanted it to come as quickly as possible. So she was not certain whether the worst thing was the exam itself or the wait preceding it. Once she obtained the mark, in fact, she started to breathe again, to feel free and to live, to hang out with friends, to take some time for herself.

Only over months and years she had learned to manage that tension, to downsize the anxiety that school gave her. With the help of Patrick, who had taught her to make the most during oral exams, to bring out the best of her, she had completed her studies in glory, even with good results. Patrick, with holy patience, sitting for hours next to her, helped her going over the lessons, instilled in her confidence in her skills, corrected her study method, and when she was tired he rubbed her back. She was still grateful for everything he had done for her. In fact, things had improved, but the feeling, up to the state certification exam, had always remained the same, though on a smaller scale; death and rebirth at every meeting with the professor on duty.

Who knew what was in Luis' mind at the moment, and who knew what Mac was thinking. Would he make up his mind to do that trip? she wondered, as she tried to arrange the ironed linen. She wanted to tidy as much as possible before the birth. By now it was close, and it could happen at any time.

Sure, Mac's hesitations could be understood. Even Patrick and she had had a moment of uncertainty at the beginning with Luis. Were they doing well? Was what they wrote adequate? What should they tell him? For a few months they had stopped to meditate, full of doubts, fearing that their joy would not please their interlocutor, that their problems were insignificant compared to his. Then they had overcome the impasse, realizing that their friend just needed to know their story, so they kept sending him letters and postcards without ever stopping. And, by the way, writing to Luis had also been a great way for Futura to learn English, at which, originally, she had been really bad. Even then it had been Patrick to push her vigorously. When it was time to write the first letter, he had almost ordered her, "You write it!"

She had fallen into a gloomy panic.

"I can't!"

"You write it, then we correct and complete it." After all he was a native.

She had done it and had started to become familiar with that idiom, which until then had been quite unknown to her. She coped better with French, definitely. Then Patrick, sitting her on his knees, had reviewed the mess she had drafted and fixed every sentence, explaining, always with a lot of patience and without any conceit, the reason for every single change. And she had loved him once more for that.

That role play had gone on for a long time. Now that Futura no longer needed to write to Luis to learn English, she realized she needed Luis in her life.

43.

Turin

Teresa, with a pink hair clip in her hair, opened the door in a few seconds. She lived in a side street of Corso Peschiera, on the top floor in an attic. When Giovanni entered, his nostrils filled with the scent of exotic spices. His friend must have kept her promise, an Indian dinner with tons and tons of curry.

The house consisted of a single large room.

"That's all I can afford," she almost apologized, pointing at everything around her.

Behind the only door there was the bathroom. To sleep, Teresa opened the sofa bed.

Yet that studio apartment was cozy, decorated in warm colors, full of cushions and carpets and with red and orange hues. A lamp, between the table and the sofa, shed a soft yellowish light.

"Rigorously IKEA Furniture!" She smiled again, brandishing a wooden ladle.

"Very nice, here, really. You arranged it just fine!" Giovanni said, enchanted, with genuine spontaneity.

He recalled two other homes at once; his own and the one he had shared with Manuela. The former had no distinctive feature; if he had to describe it in one word it would definitely be 'desolation'. The pre-existing furniture in white Formica and the nothing he had added to it since he had settled there, depressed anyone who entered, starting from he who lived there. Yet he would not know what to do about it. The latter had much more personality. Manuela had filled it with pretentious minimalist furniture and, on the whole, with all the pots and paraphernalia they had received for their wedding. It was undoubtedly very sophisticated and refined, but, in the end, cold. Giovanni had always felt in awe in front of those half-empty cupboards containing crystal phials and china plates. What if they broke? Would the world collapse?

Teresa's house was full of things, but not uncomfortable, quite the contrary. Those cushions just invited to sit on them, which Giovanni did as soon as his colleague told him to.

"Sit down, come on, I'm preparing the sauce. Put on a little music. Does incense bother you?"

He looked around. There were cheerful and colorful paintings on the walls. Giovanni thought that the house was furnished with a very feminine taste. Then he was surprised by his own astonishment.

"Did you arrange everything yourself?"

"Sure, who else?"

"Congratulations."

"Oh, but you haven't seen the best. Come here. The apartment is a hole, but there's one thing I would not change with anything else."

Behind the kitchen, which could be barely seen, was a French door that opened onto a balcony overlooking a large portion of the city. The balcony, besides, was full of plants, put in vases of all kinds; small, large, terracotta, metal, enameled, lacquered, painted. There was a kind of ivy and spices of all kinds.

"Nice view from up here," he commented.

"Do you like my 'girls'?" she asked, pointing at the flora that filled the balcony recessed into the roof.

"Wow, you have a green thumb."

"Oh, well, I'm a chemist, fertilizers are my forte. However, almost everything you see usually ends up in a pan. I grow all spices in the world. Almost."

"Tell me," he asked with concern. "Sure that in those vases there's not something illegal, like marijuana? Because in this case, as your lawyer, I should remind you that..."

Teresa laughed, with her hoarse and low voice.
"No, no, don't worry. Unless basil is a hallucinogen, I shouldn't have any problems. And anyway, you're not my lawyer, your wife is."

"Ex-wife," he corrected her, returning inside.

"As you wish," she fell into line and followed him. "Why don't you sit down at the table? Since I realized that it's the first time for you, I cooked something simple; kebab with vegetables and chicken curry with basmati rice."

"So long to simplicity. I don't even know how to write the names of your dishes..."

"Taste it, come on. Tell me if it's good."

Giovanni obeyed, then turned up his nose.

"I'm not used to anything like this, but yes, it's very tasty. Be patient," he apologized. "I am accustomed to Piedmontese cuisine. My mother loves cooking as much as you, in fact she runs a restaurant farm on the outskirts of the Langhe. But it's another matter entirely. That is, don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't appreciate..."

"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have forced on you such a complex dinner..." Teresa said, looking down.

"No, you did well. It's time for me to open my horizons to something other than the bagnacauda and chocolate bunet."

"Okay," she said. "But let's not digress. I invited you for a reason. What is it that keeps you away from your wife?"

"Do you see this lavish table? Well, Manuela never did anything like this for me. I don't mean the Indian dishes. I mean she never cooked a meal from the beginning to the end, and even when she cooked, they were things without any flavor, when they weren't dietetic and without sugar. She munches salads all day. Crackers for breakfast. So in short, I was undernourished with her. And do not ask me if I ever tried to tell her, because I did, even very explicitly, and that never changed anything," he said, raising his tone a little. "She never thought necessary to cook a full meal; in fact she has always been very attentive to weight, both hers and mine."

"And apart from the different tastes in the kitchen? Don't tell me you're divorcing just for that!"

"Everything else! Manuela is too self-centered and I..." then he stopped for a moment and listened. "Nice song. It was always on air on the radio a couple of years ago."

"Yeah, I really like it too."

"What kind of music do you prefer?" Giovanni asked curiously.

"None in particular. When I want to relax, new age."

"My brother in law, Patrick, the husband of my sister, is a saxophonist. He introduced me to the mysteries of jazz and, I must say, it's not bad..."

They talked about music until late at night, and from that moment on, there was no mention of the Manuela.

44.

Turin

After the football game, Iago and his teammates went into the bar. He looked around in search of his friend, but did not see her. Was she sick? Because of that damned aching tooth, she had had to give up two study sessions with him. And last time, when she said goodbye, she was pale and tired.

"Are you looking for the blonde chick?" said Claudio, elbowing his ribs. "You must tell me what's there between you and that hottie."

"She's a classmate of mine," Iago explained. "I met her at the university. Nothing else," he answered without looking at his friend in the eyes.

"And did you already...?" Claudio made a very explicit gesture with his hand.

"What the fuck are you saying? I just told you I barely know her," Iago said with annoyance.

"And your girl, the pain in the ass, what's her name? Does she know that after football you get coffee from a babe like that?"

"Oh, how boring! I already have Fabiana boring me to death, even though I don't complain to her. Don't you start too, Cla."

"Okay, look, since you and the blonde are only acquaintances, do you mind if I make a pass at her?"

A part of Iago was about to start laughing. Claudio was just shameless, but it would be very hard for him with Elena. He would have no chance, and that was it. But another part of him took offense.

"Don't even think about it. She's not someone to take lightly. She's tough," he muttered with a kind of anger.

Right then Elena stepped in, out of breath. She ran into the kitchen and reappeared behind the counter wearing her apron. Her face was swollen. Iago, no longer minding Claudio, approached her.

"Everything all right? What's wrong?"

"My tooth. It sucks. It hurts like crazy. It can't be saved. On the 11th of November I'm going to the hospital to have it pulled out. I can't take it anymore."

"And then, after it's removed?"

"I'll do without it," she said impatiently. "For sure I don't I have the money to get a new one. If I had, I'd go to a serious dentist, and have it crowned rather then removed. A beautiful crown and you wouldn't even see that it is a restored tooth. But unfortunately I can't," she finished, upset, immediately starting to brew coffee.

Iago was dumbfounded and bewildered. Someone had told him that poverty can be seen from the teeth. The really poor are toothless. Those who have money, have at least dentures. Elena wasn't twenty-five yet and she was going to have a hole in her mouth. Her beautiful smile would be ruined, and that thought hurt him.

He sat back at his table where Claudio was waiting for him, with those light-blue malicious eyes of his, to say, "So there's nothing between you and the blonde, uh? Go tell it to someone else! Look at yourself. Your eyes are heart-shaped and you're foaming at the mouth. I won't envy you the day when your girlfriend finds out. She'll kick your ass for good. Good luck."

Then his friend stood up and left him alone with his thoughts.

45.

London

Sitting with his feet on the desk, Mac turned in his hands the letter written by Luis that Futura and Patrick had lent him. He did not know what to think. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

All night he had read and re-read whole pages, looking for a hint, a detail that could prove irrefutably that Luis was a pervert, a dirty mind, a maniac. He wanted to prove to himself that he wasn't wrong, that the abnormity of that individual had to emerge clearly, no matter what he did, said or pondered.

And so he found himself probing sentence such as,

"Dear Futura and Patrick,

God bless you. So you have visited Southern Ireland? The pictures you sent me are wonderful, the grass is a color I never thought could exist. [...]. The Cork Butter Museum is a place I'd love to visit! It must be interesting and probably it makes your mouth water just thinking about it! [...] How is Irish food compared to Italian one? I bet there is no comparison! [...]"

"Dear Futura and Patrick,

as you may have known my mother passed out. Probably Ted told you. It was an unexpected thing, a heart attack. Our stepfather called 911 immediately, but there was nothing they could do. [...] What hurts me the most, in addition to having lost one of the people dearest to me, is that I wasn't there when all this happened. [...] Now, Ted is the only person I have left."

"Dear Futura and Patrick,

what a wonderful child you have! She really is a little angel, a lovely creature! I hung the pictures you sent me to the wall of my cell, next to those of my niece, Cindy, that scoundrel! They keep me good company. In the darkest moments I just have to look at these two girls to cheer me up."

"Dear Futura and Patrick,

Italy must be a great place! Please, send me more photos of your holidays! And the little girl, how she has grown up! Congratulations! [...] I've always wondered how to cook linguine with shrimp. Would you send me a recipe, please? [...]. Last night I had a dream ... I was a kid again, I went to school and I still had to make all my decisions... [...] Lately I've been a bit down. I spent a long period of reflection in which I challenged all my certainties and the perception I had of myself. I don't know how I will come out of it. [...]."

"Dear Futura and Patrick,

unfortunately even the latest process in front of the Supreme Court had a negative outcome, and right now I have run out of the possibilities that the law granted me. Requesting a new trial would take a lot of money, which I don't have. Ted is trying to gather information. Thank you for the contribution you offered me. I don't want to give up, anyway, I really want to live. [...] My only regret is knowing that I made an entire family suffer with what I did. I would give anything to revive that man. [...]. Thank you for your friendship. I always pray for you. May God bless you!"

Mac read, reread and reread again and found nothing. No detail marked unequivocally the sender as the monster that he expected to unmask. All that Luis had written showed only one thing, which emerged strongly; a great desire to normality. Luis, who had to face his guilt daily, without a chance to hide, was much more normal than many other people Mac met every day, who showered him with delusions and manias. From all his letters shone a great desire for life, a sincere repentance for what he had done, and the wish to remain in contact with reality. So Luis had his friends describe to him Italian dishes, resorts and all the good things in life of which he tried in every way to not lose the taste. Then, every so often, he let some sadness show. Yet, consistent with the whole situation, Luis was an absolutely normal and balanced person.

Mac stood up from his swivel chair. He took off his shirt and started lifting weights with his gym gear. Then he thought again, grabbed the cordless phone and dialed a number.

"I'm Julian MacGregor, I would like to ask permission to visit a prisoner, Luis Crawford. I should be on the list that he has validated. Yes, I understand, you're right, 'MacGregor' is not listed. Maybe you should look for 'MacInnes', then, my real last name."

46.

Atmore, Alabama

Luis loved the sea. He hadn't been there very often, just a couple of times in his short life as a free man, but he liked it. So he loved to imagine being free like a seagull and glide above the waves. Or living like a sailor. He loved to receive photos, postcards and drawings of the sea. He kept them all on a wall and watched them often, when he wasn't studying, praying, or writing.

He always asked that to his friends; photos of the sea, thanks. But he was glad to receive other types of landscapes as well, and discover new places that he would never visit. He had liked a lot Ireland, described by Futura and Patrick, with its green fields and neat little houses. Too bad for the climate and the gray sky. Other friends instead wrote to him from Argentina! They often spoke of their culture, the city in which they lived and the way they cooked meat. And his mouth watered every time they told him how one of their barbecues had been.

So Luis lived a life of dreams and imagination, and the letters of which his cell was full kept him company, helped him feel less alone.

Even though, to tell the truth, solitude had never been a problem, since he had been incarcerated.

Luis had become a Christian and did not believe in ghosts. But sometimes the presence of the boy he had killed was almost tangible.

He didn't remember everything of that night. The exact moment when he hit him wasn't clear in his mind.

His victim's name had been Set, Set Johnson, a neighborhood bully, exactly like him. Except he had the luck of being white. And he was arrogant. Luis never liked him much, when he saw his big car running in the streets, tires screeching on the blacktop. In fact, he really hated him. But it was not a reason to kill him. On the contrary, Luis was always trying to stay out of trouble, and of gang fights.

Then that night in the bar everyone had had too much drinks, and not just drinks. Luis, in the bathroom had snorted a strip of coke.

Afterwards, in the bar, the brawl had been triggered by a flimsy excuse. Something about a girl on whom Set had laid his hands. Luis couldn't even remember her name, but the fact that that pig had put his hands in the forbidden zone had bothered him. From there to punches flying it had been a short step. Until, at some point, Set had pulled out a knife and screamed, "Now I kill you, bloody nigger!"

Then Luis had only thought one thing, "It's either me or him," he had thought. "Either me or him."

Since then, memory had reset everything. Maybe it was alcohol, coke, the horror of what had ensued. Either way, Luis didn't even remember hitting him, he didn't remember anything, only waking up in a prison from which he was never released.

Yet it had been him, too many witnesses testified it, Set's friends, but also, reluctantly, his own.

Luis had never got rid of Set's ghost. He'd been living there with him, in his eternal company, for nearly fifteen years. Set watched over his sleepless nights, was always close to him. He had even become familiar to him, as he had never been when alive. Because Set had never spoken in those fifteen years of post-mortem presence; he had never told him a single word, neither to accuse him nor to comfort him. He was simply there to remind him he was there, with his never-aged, eternally twenty-years-old face – if he closed his eyes, Luis could even see him, albeit with soft edges – pointing out to him, in case he forgot, that once there had been a boy from whom he had taken away the future and the chance to become something other than a street thug.

So not a day passed in which Luis could escape his own responsibility. Maybe they would soon meet again, maybe in hell, hopefully in heaven, or, most likely, in a purgatory without any more pain or struggle, where there was no pain, but neither light. Who knew what they would say to each other, then. Who knew if at least Set had forgiven him. Luis feared that appointment.

47.

Turin

That day it was Giovanni who sat in front of her in the canteen.

"May I?" he asked.

But she seemed doubtful, when she nodded.

"Sure, compared to the dishes you prepare, this slop is really tasteless" he went on.

Teresa smiled.

"Is everything okay?" he asked.

"Tonight I'm seeing Manuela and I feel a bit guilty."

"Why?" Giovanni asked, surprised.

"I wanted to help you get back together, but I couldn't understand how to."

Giovanni put down his fork.

"Now I want you to explain me why you care so much about my marriage with Manuela. It even seems it matters more for you than for me. If the glass is broken it can't be mended. If my ex-wife and I can't find a common ground, maybe there's a reason," he said, and he realized, for the first time, that saying that hurt him a little less than usual. His relationship was over, but the world could go on anyway, maybe even better than before.

"Because it's sad, because you two love each other and I can't conceive that two people who love each other can't keep their union standing."

"I don't know, but it happens." Giovanni shrugged.

"Geez, yet you are two smart persons. Try again, Giovanni. You told me yourself; you love each other. Talk. Try to understand each other. Now I really have to go, anyway," and so saying she stood up, adjusted her skirt on her knees and put the tray on the trolley, leaving her colleague pondering.

Maybe Teresa was right. Maybe he had asked Manuela to change without having a right to, but in the end he hadn't put anything in their relationship. His wife was what she was and she could give him certain things, not necessarily those he demanded. Maybe they could still find a compromise.

After ten minutes, his phone rang. It was her calling, right on cue.

"Hello, Gio, how are you?" she asked, her voice cheerful and melodious.

"Not bad, Manu, and you?"

"Fine, fine. You know what I was thinking? Tonight I'm seeing your colleague about the suit, but I'm free tomorrow evening. Why don't you come over for dinner?"

How many invitations in just a few days. He wasn't accustomed to that.

"Okay, yes, I'll be glad," Giovanni said, blushing.

Maybe it was a sign of fate, an unambiguous way in which Heaven was telling him that there might still be a chance. In the depths of what had been their home, he and Manuela could resume a speech.

When he hung up, Manuela was satisfied. Slowly, working patiently, she would bring back Giovanni into her orbit. After all even Teresa had told her, hadn't she? He was always talking about her. She had also encouraged her to show her availability, to try and show him that she still wanted to be his wife, inviting him over for dinner, in fact. So she had seized the moment and called. Teresa was right. It seemed that Giovanni had been just waiting for it.

48.

London

The turmoil of the last few days, related to Luis' probable execution, had quite distracted Patrick from his personal problems. In a couple of occasions he had even had to comfort Futura, who had burst into tears thinking about what was going to happen in a remote prison in Alabama. His wife was already suffering enough from the last days of pregnancy and the quarrel with her friend Elettra, so, at times, with the complicity of her hormones, out of the blue she fell crying in his arms.

"Why must this happen? Why? And why exactly when Emma is to be born? We will be there celebrating the arrival of our daughter while a friend of ours is dying because of an unjust law!"

Patrick did not know how to cheer her up, so he just caressed her shoulders and head. They had always known that it was going to happen, sooner or later, unless a miracle occurred. They were aware that one day they would lose that friend, but in fact they never imagined that it would happen in conjunction with another event, so special, in their lives, like the arrival of their second daughter.

But it would be a serious loss, from every point of view. Initially they had accepted to write to Luis as a favor to Ted, who had asked them.

"My brother is so lonely, he needs the company of friends, and reading our letters is a huge comfort for him."

But even though at the beginning it had been a work of charity, now the idea of letting that friend go hurt them.

Over the years, they had understood that the initial condescension with which they had started that communication had no reason to exist, that the two of them weren't superior to him, that those letters weren't important only for Luis.

However, Luis' problem did not exclude everything else for Patrick, actually it added to the rest. And the fact that perhaps he had a teenage daughter somewhere in Britain would not go away just because his good heart suffered for the sentencing to death of a friend and for the pre-birth depression of his wife. His troubles had strongly come back to haunt him that afternoon, when Arlene, after many days of absence, had called him in the office to tell him, "Today Allison and I are in London. If you want we can meet."

A massive tachycardia had arisen in his chest, his hands had started sweating, but he answered, "Give me an hour."

He had been waiting for that meeting for days, he had dreamed and imagined that moment a thousand times in a thousand ways, but now that it was coming, he discovered that he wasn't ready at all, and the feeling that came from the state of uncertainty wasn't pleasant. In general, he was always ready; he was born ready. In college he had never happened to show up at an exam without being more than learned in that subject. This time, however, he didn't have the faintest idea of what to do or say. His only certainty was that all that excitement could only be counterproductive.

Maybe he hadn't done well, also, showing up for the meeting with twenty minutes to spare, running away from the office with an excuse, telling his secretary that he had to leave earlier for personal reasons. It was the first stupid thing that had crossed his mind. Maybe he should have packed a better story. In fact, now that he was sitting at that table, waiting, his legs were shaking.

While he was waiting he saw that his phone was ringing. Futura was looking for him. He did not have the courage to answer. But then, fearing that it was something urgent, that the labor pains had started, or any other reason concerning her health or that of their children, she texted her, "I'm in a meeting. If you need me I'll call you immediately, or can I do it later?"

The answer had arrived without delay, "No problem, honey. Nothing vital. Call when you can. Kisses! <3"

A little heart. His wife sent him tender virtual hearts. As he considered how he was a worm, as he was riding a new wave of guilt and wondering what would happen to those hearts on the day when Futura found out the whole truth, Arlene, with her uncertain steps, approached his table.

"Hi," she smiled. "Have you been waiting long?"

"Hi," Patrick said, sounding quite rude. He realized he was very tense, and that neither that was the best way to start. So he forced himself to be more polite, "Hi," he said again. "How are you?" he held out his hand to Arlene. "This must be your daughter, Allison."

"Yeah. Come on, Ally, greets this gentleman."

Patrick looked at the girl before him. Was it possible that at her age she still needed encouragement to greet an adult? He knew that Arlene hadn't told her daughter that she might have her father in front of her. She had told her that they would go shopping and meet a classmate of her mother. So it was understandable that Allison wasn't looking at Patrick with the same curiosity with which he was looking at her. But, undoubtedly, that teenager seemed uninterested in everything. After a mumbled "Hello", completely indifferent, chewing gum, she had turned to the phone on which she had been typing messages, and hadn't look up once.

Arlene and Patrick had tried and pretended to start a conversation as quiet as useless.

"So, how are you? What do you do? Do you like it? Two daughters, you said, one to be born in a few days? That's great..."

But Allison hadn't come out of her world.

Patrick had watched her for a long time. Red, electric hair. Rebel eyes. And, something that hadn't been clear in the picture, a sprinkling of freckles. Who had freckles in his family?

For the whole time there, Patrick stood wondering what he could have in common with that teenager. The passion for the telecommunications, maybe? Could that be the key to begin an approach, to start a dialogue? Since his supposed daughter wasn't putting down that phone, at some point he tried to tell her, "What a nice smartphone! Can I see it? Do you know I design applications for devices like this?" which aroused just a lukewarm reaction from the girl, who looked at him with dull eyes, then the attempted conversation died.

Patrick knew by hearsay, and also because having a sister ten years younger had been quite a challenge, that teenagers were typically hard to crack. Undoubtedly, seeing things from the girl's point of view, since she hadn't been told anything at all, there was no reason why a thirteen year old girl should be interested in him, a thirty-three years old man she had never seen before. Maybe in a later meeting, once the truth had been disclosed, the same Allison would look at him with new eyes. Once Arlene explained her "that's your father", the teenager would react differently.

She would soften, or become impossible and annoying. But she would have a different kind of involvement.

In fact, however, at the end of the preliminary meeting, Patrick felt destroyed. He had spent half the afternoon studying that creature, trying to find resemblances, similarities, affinities, whatever could reveal a bond, but other than the light hue of her eyes he hadn't found anything.

His defeat was total. There wasn't a single detail that made him feel that creature as his, that aroused a feeling of belonging.

Basically, between him and the girl there had been no spark, only complete indifference from both sides. If she really was his daughter, it would be a disaster. Forcibly creating a link, without any spontaneous and natural feeling between them, would be a massive task.

Not to mention taking care of her...

49.

London

Half an hour after Arlene and Allison left, Patrick was still sitting at the same table, with a glass of gin and tonic in hand – goodbye coffee, Arlene had immediately ordered an alcoholic drink and he had followed suit – trying to digest that meeting and to unravel the tangle of emotions, mostly negative, that he felt inside. After emptying his glass, he was standing up to pay when his phone rang again. It was Mac

"Hello brother, how are you doing?" he said.

"A real crap, Mac, and you?"

"What happened?"

"Allison. I finally got to meet her. She left me half an hour ago."

"And?"

"Remember when you suggested me to wait for the first meeting before getting alarmed, and to postpone my anxieties? And when you told me that after meeting her maybe everything would be easier? Well, it didn't happen. Nothing of the sort happened. Seeing her rang no bell, no feeling. Basically, for someone who could be my daughter, I felt nothing. Nothing at all. Complete, and moreover mutual, indifference."

"Dude, give yourself time. Who said that some bonds have to be innate? Maybe in some time..."

"Mac, you know what? I'm afraid. I'm not fit to be the father of that girl. Neither an adoptive father as you suggested. In fact, you know what I realized today? If those who bother adopting a minor generally ask for a newborn, there's a reason. Building a father-daughter bond after thirteen or fourteen years, is almost impossible."

"Don't get so caught up in despair. Think about option B. Maybe, if you really felt nothing, it may mean that the girl is not your daughter."

"It would be too good to be true! But unfortunately, from what I see around, it is not obvious that my lack of empathy towards Allison is a clear sign of her unrelatedness to me. Take for example my friend Stefano Valenti. You know him, don't you?"

"Of course!"

"When his son Davide was a month old, he left his home because the baby made him go out of his head. Yet it was his son, but Stefano couldn't feel anything more than a little annoyance for him. You know better than me, you were there when it happened."

"Yes, indeed. Intolerable behavior. I even beat him, that time. You remember I told you so, don't you?"

"Well, I'm at risk of doing the same with Allison."

"But now, after eight months, Stefano made up his mind. Daniela wrote it to me, sometimes we exchange e-mails, so I also practice my Italian."

"Yes, I know, things between Stefano and his son have improved. But at what price? Daniela struggles to hold that sort of family together, and she's always afraid he's going to do something like that again. In fact she's not even back with him, she doesn't trust him. And I, although I'm fond of Stefano, would never want to find out to be as bad a father as him."

"Oh, here we go again? Here comes Mr. perfect that must emerge, always and everywhere. If that brat is yours, sooner or later you'll become the very good daddy you dream of being. But before there is an 'if'."

"November 11 will be a turning point for many things... Emma's birth, and then there's Luis." He paused. "Sorry, Mac, did you want to tell me anything when you called me?"

"Actually, yes, I wanted to tell you I decided to leave for Atmore and go to meet your friend before it's too late. I just learned that the director of the prison authorized my visit. So I am going to leave London."

"Thank you, Mac," Patrick said with gratitude and a good dose of amazement. "Your gesture means a lot to us."

"It was the right thing to do, man. You were right. Although I'm still not sure of what I'm going to tell to that poor wretch."

When he hung up, Patrick tried to get a grip on himself, so to go home presentable. Fortunately, that hallucinating day had had at least a silver lining.

50.

Turin

Teresa had come to her house wearing a candy pink attire and with two hair clips in her bobbed hair.

Manuela had listened for the whole evening to her stories of ordinary madness; when her grandmother locked her in a room with Radio Maria at full volume, then forcibly dragged her in front of a priest who, with a blessing, would drive out the demon of perversion she had inside. And when her father cut her hair overnight because it was too long and feminine, and her sister stole from her a dress she had bought with her savings.

"I think at this point we have enough to file a lawsuit" Manuela concluded at the end, closing the notebook in which she had duly written down places, dates and events as described by her client. "You'll see, we'll make it, be sure of that."

"Let's hope so. At worst, nothing will change compared to my current situation."

"Oh, no! Now I'm balked! Your father and your sister will get what they deserve."

"Well, if there's nothing else, I go..."

Manuela looked at her condescendingly and smiled, after tiding back her ponytail. Teresa was now practically a friend for her. Maybe she wouldn't give her a bill at the end of the case. Manuela knew everything about her, but she also had listened with patience to many confidences. Teresa was the friend everyone wanted to have, smart enough, wise and balanced enough to be able to give advice, and strong because of what she had been through. But she wasn't particularly beautiful, and then, having been born a man, she did not really constitute a danger, she wouldn't become a potential rival.

"You in a hurry?" she asked. "You have to go to bed early?"

"No, why?"

"Would you like to drink a tea with me, talk some more?"

"Yes, most gladly."

"Good," Manuela brightened and opened the doors of the cupboard to take two cups. "You know, Giovanni will come to dinner here tomorrow night."

"Really?" Teresa replied, with a bit of amazement.

"Yes, and I hope it is the right time for a decisive reconciliation. And I want to thank you, you know? You always encouraged me not to give up with him, to believe that I was still in his thoughts, and not to consider our story a loss. So I put my pride aside and I invited him. And he accepted!"

"It's fantastic news," said Teresa, but for the first time since she had met those two, she was not so sure. Maybe Giovanni was right. Maybe he and his wife were not at all suited to be together, otherwise they wouldn't find so hard to communicate. And she had seen Giovanni always so sad, since she met him. The only time she had seen him laugh had been at her house that evening, when, from a certain point onwards, he had stopped talking about Manuela. Love shouldn't bring you down like that. A working relationship might have hard times, but basically, it should bring joy. "What are you cooking?"

"I still don't know, but that's not the point," said Manuela, excited. "Giovanni will come to me and finally spend an intimate evening in our house!"

Teresa counted to ten. She was not sure she was doing the right thing, why did she insist encouraging those two to be together if in the end they were not meant for each other? But then, remembering all the confidences of her friend, she spoke, "If I were you I'd try to devise a tasty menu. You know, men love woman who cook for them. "

"You think?" Manuela asked, freezing for a moment. "Well, I'll think of something..." she cut short, waving her hand.

After the tea, Teresa took her leave.

"Now I really have to go. Thank you for everything."

Manuela, happily, threw her arms around her neck, hugging her and kissing her on both cheeks.

"No, thank you! In fact, you know what? I hope I'll still see you after the lawsuit!"

Teresa closed the door behind herself. She had always believed that Manuela, beautiful, nice, stylish and smart, had every right to be with the man she claimed to love. And even that evening, to be fair, she had wanted to give her a final good piece of advice about the menu for the next day, of which she hadn't even grasped the meaning. She admired Manuela, really. She even envied her a bit, she would have liked to be like her. But from that moment on, she would step out of that story, she would dismiss her role as Cupid. She wanted to hear nothing more about Giovanni and Manuela and their sick relationship.

51.

Turin

Iago had tried in every way to stop thinking about Elena. The idea of her toothless mouth pained him. The fact that a beautiful woman could not keep her attractiveness for lack of money was something that disgusted him. So he tried to engage in something else, to daze himself with joints, study (study!) and sex with Fabiana.

So, that night he had gone to sleep at her house; her parents weren't there, so they had shamelessly settled in their bed. She had been clinging to him all evening, had imposed a movie on DVD, "A house for Maggie", and explaining her that he knew it and had seen it more than once, that his sister Futura and her husband had been extras in a few scenes, and that even though it was set in Venice it had been actually shot in Prague, had been useless. Very democratically, Fabiana had decided that they would watch it, and so they had. In addition, sprawled on the couch, she had demanded a lot of cuddling and tickling on her back. Iago had yielded on everything, but now he was definitely fed up. Moreover, he had been trying not to remember that he had watched that movie with Elena as well, in one of their rare moments of pure leisure.

So at some point, after the movie had ended, Iago, with his head full of thoughts, had taken Fabiana in his arms and brought her with energy in the bedroom. He had pushed her on the bed, undressed her quickly and made love with her with an ardor and a devotion he rarely reserved to her. It had been short, but intense.

When, at the end of everything, Iago, lying on his back under the sheets, came to himself, without taking his eyes from the ceiling, he asked, "Fabi, how much is a crown?"

Fabiana, who had been dozing, still numb and blessed after sex, widened her eyes.

"What crown?" She had thought about that of a queen.

"A dental crown," Iago specified, annoyed that she had not jumped at the reference.

"Why? You have a problem with a tooth?" she asked, shoving two fingers into his mouth, which annoyed him further, so much so that he rudely pushed her away with his hand.

"Not for me, for my mom," he lied. "What are you going to do, put your fingers in her mouth as well?"

"Oh, how touchy you are," replied the girl, snuggling against him. "Anyway it's one thousand euro. If I tell the doctor it's for my mother-in-law, maybe he can make a little discount."

"And how long does it take to make one?"

"Well, all things considered, impressions, color, etcetera, a couple of months," Fabiana concluded, yawning.

"One thousand euro..." Iago repeated in his mind, unable to sleep. "One thousand euro..."

52.

Atmore, Alabama

Luis awoke with a start in the middle of the night. Not that he usually slept well, lately, but now it was worse. He often felt that he was forgetting something. Had he sent all e-mails? Had he called all friends? He did not have much to leave them. Some boxes of letters, a number of photos and postcards, mostly. The moonlight filtered through the window and he looked around. On one wall there were all the photos of his friends and his niece, Cindy. Maybe he should take them down and put them in a box. Maybe sooner or later they would tell him to do so. Maybe, close to the execution, he would be transferred somewhere else and forced to vacate his cell. Anyway he was going to do that himself, without being obliged. As much as those pictures kept him company, he could not bear the idea that someone else could handle them in his stead. Later he would ask Ted to take care of them, to return everything to the senders. In the end there was nothing in there that really belonged to him, not even his underwear.

A regret he often had was that he had no children. He wondered how that would have been. He liked kids, he loved his niece.

Then, there was another thought that tormented him. Would he come prepared to that day?

Since the beginning of the world, those who were sentenced to death fell into two categories; those who were resigned and those who came to the meeting with the executioner still screaming and weeping, who had to be beaten to be taken to the bed, and who cried heartbreakingly all their opposition to the event that awaited them.

Luis felt he was not ready for that day, but he didn't want to make a scene. He had a dignity to defend and was not going to beg anyone. As much as he was guilty, as much as he was at fault for the murder he had committed, he did not want to appear in front of the Johnson family devoid of any defense. He wondered if he would have the strength of mind to suppress tears. He wondered how he would really feel that morning. He just had to look at his brother Ted, who was going to stay with him until the last moment, then wait for the mix of drugs to take effect, and take away his consciousness. On the one hand, it was fortunate he had no children. He would not have stood that humiliation, thinking he was also leaving them orphans.

53.

Turin

Manuela had properly prepared herself for the dinner. Brand-new nails, with golden and pink gel, and even a fresh haircut, in case her horrible split ends had precluded any possibility of reconciliation with her husband. Finally she had ran to buy herself a new dress, very sexy, which left her back naked. Since she was at it, she had also purchased a lot of silk underwear. But then, of course, she also took care of the house, to make it welcoming for the return of the escapee. So, romantic candles everywhere, jasmine-scented, with a pale-blue light creating the atmosphere. And a new tablecloth, with a sophisticated design around the edge. Also a bottle of vintage wine standing on the table. And to be more certain that the dinner was a success, Manuela had ordered on the internet frozen foods to be heated at the moment. They weren't cheesy dishes, of course, but gourmet, good for a true chef.

So when, enveloped in a cloud of perfume, she went to the door to let Giovanni in, she was absolutely sure that he could not resist her. He, as she was in front of him, stood there dazed for a moment, blushing and hesitant like he hadn't been since their first meeting, and he could not help but wonder if he was doing well going in or not. If up to then he had kept his distance, there was a reason. Then, however, he made up his mind and took a step forward, hoping that the time of their separation might have helped removing the contrasts. After all, if she kept looking for him, maybe there was a reason. Meanwhile he looked around. The atmosphere was different from how he remembered it, it was definitely trying to be more welcoming, with all those candles, but the smell of burnt wax mixed with synthetic fragrance immediately gave him nausea and made him sick. Besides, all that pale-blue light made everything look ghostly, somehow. Perhaps two candles would be charming, but Manuela had definitely overdone it.

"Could you please blow this stuff out?" he demanded, with a cough. "I can't even breathe! Soon I'll have an asthma attack!"

The toothy smile Manuela hadn't yet hidden turned into a frown, but only for a moment.

"As you wish," she chirped, trying not to get torn up by Giovanni's whims. Those candles cost a fortune, and they were the highlight of the evening. Why did they bother him so much? Why hadn't he even appreciated them?

Anyway, he made him sit at the table and uncorked the wine immediately.

"Sit down, come on, make yourself comfortable. After all that was your armchair, wasn't it?"

He settled down, more dazed than anything else, and sorry he had had to put an end to the attempt his wife – whose intention he appreciated – to create a more romantic atmosphere, but he could not help it, that smell was terrible. In the meantime, though, she had started walking around him, flattering him. Meanwhile she spoke about herself, "Now the situation at the office is almost, I say almost, livable. Without Paul, Nadia has taken another turn; on the one hand she returned to her roots, but on the other hand, I don't know, maybe I exaggerate, she has mellowed. It almost seems she's getting fond of us girls and, I don't know how, we even developed some kind of harmony. Unbelievable. But this doesn't mean I have given up, in the long run, the idea of pursuing a career of my own. Not a chance. And Teresa, your colleague, will be my first actual client. By the way, how are things with your business?"

Hearing her mention Teresa, for some unknown reason, Giovanni's heart skipped a beat.

"Fine," he mumbled, without another word. "There's never anything new there. And, you know, the company is a decent size. It's another world compared to a law firm," he concluded, thinking that Manuela already knew, and that it was stupid to talk and talk again of those things in such a delicate moment, and keep repeating them every time. Wasn't there any more interesting subject?

After an aperitif made with snacks bought at the supermarket, Manuela pulled out from somewhere a plate of fish looking very refined and complex. Giovanni wondered whether she had cooked it with her own hands. She had never done such a thing in a year or more of living together. It could be a more than positive sign. Finally his wife had understood how to win him, with food, and aside from the results, she had realized that he liked to be surrounded by such cares. With curiosity, Giovanni examined the fish with a fork. It might be good. There were white soft morsels mixed with diced vegetables. He put one in his mouth and savored it. It seemed tasty. Then he sank his teeth in it and spat it out immediately with disappointment. The inside was a piece of ice, hard, tasteless and therefore inedible.

"What's this stuff?" he protested, more surprised than angry.

"Oh, sorry," Manuela, vexed, laughed nervously. "I guess it wasn't well unfrozen. I ordered dinner to one of those frozen food stores, but clearly the instructions provided to prepare them weren't so precise..."

"You order all this from a store?" he asked, even more surprised. "You didn't cook it?"

"Yes, what's the difference? What did you expect, after all?" If she had lost time cooking, she would have had to overlook many other essential details she could never give up. "Maybe the spaghetti with scampi are better."

"Never mind," Giovanni said, afraid. "I'm not that hungry after all."

"Okay," Manuela stood up and approached him with a bewitching smile. "Okay," she said, sitting astride on his knees. "Then we can spend the evening doing something else and make it much more profitable," she added, throwing her arms around his neck. "Honey, I'm so glad you're here. For us, this could be a new beginning. It could be a way to get close again."

And so saying she started rubbing against him and kissing his lips, his sunken cheeks, his scrawny neck.

Giovanni let her do that for a few seconds. Then his head started spinning. What he was doing was wrong, he thought. All wrong, just the opposite of how it should be done. On the one hand he wanted to take Manuela in his arms and surrender to the lures with which she was seducing him. He would like it. He would have his wife back, the girl of his dreams since the time of university. He was as excited as the first time he and Manuela had made love. He could not even believe it, that day. After so many worries and palpitations, she was his. And now she was there again. Indeed, if he hadn't left, she would never have left him. But then Giovanni looked around. He saw the blue unlit candles and the tasteless food on an embroidered tablecloth. And his beautiful wife, always well-cared and refined, always well-coiffed and made up, who gave herself to him only when she was sure of getting something in return. Not for cruelty or meanness, but because that's how she was. If Giovanni envisioned a home, he saw the messy and cozy apartment of Teresa, not the aseptic and trendy one of Manuela.

Then he froze, pushed the girl away and said, "Stop. You're not the one I want. Not like this."

Manuela stopped suddenly.

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. We broke up for precise reasons, and today I got confirmation that nothing has changed since then."

"What? Giovanni, would you please tell me what's wrong?" she asked, upset. "Why are you ruining this evening I had arranged especially for you? Why do you treat me this way? Why are you sabotaging any possible reconciliation? Yet this time the table was set, wasn't it? And even the sheets in the other room are ironed with starch. You can't complain that I did not do my duties as a wife, because I did."

He sighed.

"Manu, don't you see it just doesn't work? I'm not what you want and you're not the one who can give me love the way I want it!"

Manuela looked at him, her eyes bulging.

"Then what the hell do you want? I tried to do everything you asked! You wanted a dinner and I prepared it, you wanted me devoted to the house and I humored you..."

"And I appreciate it... I see that you tried. But the problem is not what you do but the way you do it, it is the self-centeredness with which you stuff everything that makes all your efforts lose value. You take no account of the sensitivity of people in front of you, even if you try very hard, even if you believe you're giving others who knows what, in truth you always put yourself before everything and everyone," he wanted to say. But he preferred not to hurt her. It would be an unnecessary evil, and she would not understand anyway.

"Don't go crazy for me, Manuela. You mustn't be different from what you are. You just have to realize that together we're not going anywhere."

"And now where are you going?" she asked, aghast, noting that he was donning his jacket.

"I don't know, but it makes no sense for me to stay here. I love you, Manu, really, and I appreciate your attempt. I am grateful that you tried to meet me halfway. And I'm happy I was here. It was right, we had to try to save our marriage. But I need another kind woman."

"Another kind of woman or another woman? Nobody leaves anyone so abruptly if he hasn't already found an alternative, Giovanni, and I wasn't born yesterday."

"I assure you that at the moment I have no alternative," which was true, but if he had wanted to be just a little more straightforward, Giovanni would have explained that the girl who could take her place in his heart could only be one kind; someone that, in everything she did, proved to care for others, to act for his own good and not to satisfy some specific aesthetic standard.

Someone like Teresa, to be sure.

54.

London

Patrick stood huddled in the bathroom with his pounding head in his hands, no longer able to sleep. Since when Arlene had introduced Allison to him, it had been a crescendo of tension and things going bad. That evening, when he had returned home, Futura immediately asked, "Where were you this afternoon? Before calling your mobile I had tried at Hansel, and your secretary told me you had left for personal reasons."

Patrick had gone pale, after yet another demonstration that lies really weren't his forte. Then, getting a grip on himself, he had muttered, almost resentfully, "No, I was in a meeting outside the office, that stunned girl must have been mistaken," he had defended himself. Then he had even added, "Lately she's quite distracted, imagine that when a customer is looking for one of us, and she can't find him at his desk at the time, she's capable of saying he went out for a coffee. As if in there we were a handful of slobbers addicted to coffee breaks. Does it make sense to you?"

Futura had merely to look at him in amazement, "I thought you liked your secretary."

"Yes, in the beginning," he had cut short, feeling like an idiot. "But now she doesn't always do her job as she should."

The issue had ended there, after all his wife had no reason to think he was not telling the truth, and that was what made him feel bad, more than any other thing. But she had been looking at him for a long time, lately, and Patrick was perfectly aware of how Futura looked at him with apprehension mixed with concern. He was skinny, tight, tense, and she was trying to cheer him up, make him understand that he needed not fear so much Emma's birth, that they would find a way to handle the situation much better than they could imagine. In fact, the more she offered him tenderness, the more he tormented himself on what he had done.

So that evening, when Futura, in her slip and with her huge belly, had approached him, thrown her arms around him and told him, "Why don't we try making love?" He, for the umpteenth time, had felt like a worm.

"I thought you didn't like it in pregnancy, that your desire had subsided because of hormones..." he replied, stiffening and trying to dodge the hug.

But she had argued, biting her lip and stroking his temples, "Yes, in fact it is not like in normal times, but it's been so long since we last spent some time together, and then it seems that having intercourse before the delivery is a way to facilitate it..."

Patrick thought that, as scientifically acknowledged as it was, Futura's explanation was nothing but an excuse. At the moment she would have fled to the moon just to be physically away from him. During the first pregnancy she had admitted that intimacy even bothered her, and they had argued for that reason, so he, mindful, at the second run had voluntarily decided to demand a minimum of attention. But now here she was, ready to give herself to him, in spite of the size of her belly, and he was sure that in her intention Futura was doing that exclusively for him, for his well-being. She wanted to give him something, a moment just for them, a moment of exquisite pleasure before the birth, to ease his tension, to cheer him up, to make him feel better.

Still he hadn't been able to decline the offer. When she had covered him with kisses and started to nibble the lobe of his ear, he had wrapped her in his arms and made love to her.

Thus, after the intercourse had happened, moreover with some ardor and impetuosity by Patrick, she had fallen asleep in the bed and he had locked himself in the bathroom to cry about his misery. He hadn't been able to resist his wife, to refrain from making love with her for decency, and now he felt like he had exploited her. The idea that this could be the last time she loved him made him completely crazy. He could never give up his wife. But what would happen if she left him because of that situation, because he had a daughter somewhere else, or because he hadn't told her, or for both reasons? Patrick felt that he was wrapped in a situation with no way out. Everything he had done up to that point had only worsened everything.

And now he was crouched down between the tub and the sink, without having slept for even a minute, sobbing as the first pale light of day shyly filtered through the window.

When Futura came for the first pee of the day and saw him in that state, blushed, with sunken eyes and the throes of a cry, she could not help but get scared to death.

"Oh God, what's happening to you? Are you hurt?" she was in a panic. She did not understand the reason for so much despair. She had believed that the worst was behind, that Patrick was feeling better, that his stress had taken a different form.

He looked up, his face disfigured by tears. He realized he had hit rock bottom, so it could not get any worse. He could not keep hiding from Futura the truth about everything he was experiencing. He could not stay silent any longer to avoid that she got sick before the birth. He felt weak as ever and defeated. Yet he could not help it.

"Would you sit next to me, please?" he asked. "I have something to confess," the words came out of his mouth on their own.

Futura was ashen. What the hell could it be? What could be so serious as to reduce the nervous system of her husband to a pulp? She felt her heart beating franticly.

"Tell me," she exhaled, scared, as her mouth dried up and her legs gave way.

He did not beat the bush, "I might have a daughter," he sobbed. "Another one, I mean."

In short, he told her everything, from Arlene's phone call, out of the blue, to the paternity test which outcome he was waiting for, to the meeting he had already had with the girl.

Futura felt that her head was spinning. She couldn't understand.

"Let me understand," she gasped, looking lost. "Who would this Arlene be? You never even mentioned her to me..."

"Like I said, she's someone I hung out twice with after graduation... I've never been in love with her, I didn't even like her. I never felt anything for her."

"But this didn't prevent you from sleeping with her..." she said with disgust, her hands shaking. "That's disgusting ... And without even using precautions..." Futura repressed the impulse to vomit.

"I explained you," Patrick was shaking like a leaf. "It was Max's party, we were all drunk, I fucked up, okay? Haven't you ever had unprotected sex in your teens? Never?"

"Yes, once," she said, raising the tone. It had happened with Raul. "It happened! It was a foolish thing, I admit, but there is one major difference; I was in love with that boy, lost in love, and I'd have accepted whatever would stem from having been with him. Even a child from him, if unfortunately it would come. But you've just said that you felt nothing for that girl, and yet you fucked her without remorse... It's revolting..."

"It was, let's say, an accident..."

"An accident? And how do you explain this 'accident' with your obsession for controlling everything? You always fill my head with ranting every time something unexpected happens. When I got pregnant the first time, of the baby that I lost, you would have immediately brought me to have an abortion, because at that time it was not in the plans..."

"This is not true, I never asked you anything like that... And you know that I too suffered when..."

"You didn't explicitly asked me to, but at the beginning you couldn't accept it... Still you said you loved me..."

"And it was true! In fact, we got married afterward, didn't we?"

Futura realized that the trembling of her hands was unstoppable.

"And then, this Arlene, this..." she added, changing subject. "Why does she pop up just now? What does she really want from you?"

"I don't know," Patrick defended himself, his face contorted, putting a hand on his head. "I don't know! I thought of a thousand reasons, wanting my money, my social prestige, or maybe she seriously just needs a father for her daughter... But she's... weird... I told you. She's a peculiar girl... She's always been..."

"So that was it ..." Futura said, staring into empty space. "And I thought that your panic of the last few weeks was because of Emma, that it was because of the two of us... and I thought I were at the top of your thoughts... Instead you were lying to me. Why didn't you tell me before?" she asked, tough. "Why, at least, you didn't inform me immediately?"

He tried to take her hand, but she pulled back.

"Because I was afraid of your reaction... I was afraid that your body could react badly, that your pressure could rise like last time, I wanted to wait for Emma to be born..."

"But now I'm here, hearing your confession, and yet I'm still pregnant," she objected with a hint of disdain.

"I couldn't stand it any longer, I'm sorry. I broke down and I feel like a fool for this, forgive me," he justified himself, contrite. "I'm a wuss."

"And I've tried everything to make you feel at ease... I believed I knew the cause of your discomfort... I was sure I knew you, always so perfect, so flawless and always so demanding. Order and stability in the first place. Instead, you're no better than the others, and moreover you're a liar. But then who did I marry?"

"Don't judge me badly, please," he pleaded, getting smaller and smaller, more and more curled up on himself. "It is not true that you don't know me. I'm still me, I'm Patrick, I'm the man who's been living next to you for almost eight years. I was always honest with you. It's true, when I was eighteen I behaved irresponsibly, but after that I matured, I became another person, a man with his head on his shoulders. I became the man you married. You and I all but grew up together. What happened before may have consequences, but it can't change what I am now or what I feel for you and for our daughters."

Futura's ears were buzzing, she had in her mind a thousand confused thoughts and as many objections to make. If Allison turned out to be Patrick's daughter, even their family dynamics would undergo an adjustment, to say the least. Maybe nothing would ever be the same again. But she also considered that at the moment Patrick, with his head stuck between his knees, was desperate, and it wasn't fair to rage on him. If she opened her mouth, if she spoke in hot blood, she would say bad things that she was going to regret later.

Thus, levering on the bathtub, she struggled to get up, she stood up and said, "I need to get away for a while. I'm going away for a few days."

Patrick looked up, with a single dreadful idea etched in his brain, "You'll go stay at Philip's?"

Futura turned and answered, surprises and upset at the same time, "At Philip's? Why did you think that? Why the hell would I go bother our friend? What does he have to do with all this, pray tell?"

"So where are you going?"

"At your sister and Marguerite's home. With all the times we welcomed them here, they may well give me shelter for a while. Besides they live reasonably close to the hospital; if Emma decides to come out, at least I'd be able to get hospitalized in a hurry."

"Will you call me if that happens?" he asked, afraid, still stuck in his corner between the sink and bathtub.

"Yeah, sure, I could never deny you this, apart from everything else. Don't worry."

Then Futura approached him again, knelt beside him, stroked his cheek with two fingers and said calmly, "I need some time to think. I think you owe me at least that. In the meantime, however, try to take care of yourself. Try to sleep. Take a little diazepam, don't overdo it. I'll leave you quiet, I'm bringing Marina with me."

Patrick saw her leave the bathroom, in the light of the day that had invaded the room in the meantime, and did not even try to stop her. When he heard the front door shut, he started crying again. All he had feared for weeks had just come true in the worst way.

55.

Cristini

Iago kept tossing and turning in his bed and couldn't come to a solution. How much would it take to put together the thousand euro, give or take one hundred, needed for the crown for Elena? He counted the money in his pocket more than once. He didn't have one thousand euro, and even giving up some joints and football, and intensifying his work at the farm, he would never gather the necessary sum. Not within the 11th of November, at least. His life, moreover, was already hard and messed up enough, all things considered. And of course Fabiana gave him no respite. Could he ask the money to Matteo, his biological father? He immediately dismissed the idea. Who knew when he would come to Cristini, that man. And anyway he didn't like the idea of being in debt to him. On the other hand, he hadn't told Elena anything of what he was pondering in his head, indeed, he hadn't even heard from her lately.

To clear his mind he stood up and started studying. The exam would be soon enough, and he was really willing to make it. He had read half of the volume in his hands with his friend and he felt prepared. She, on the other hand, kept postponing every possible study session, because that tooth was really painful. Then the phone rang. Iago's heart sank, he hoped it was Elena. But it was Fabiana.

"Love what are you doing?" she asked.

"Studying."

"What are you studying?"

Iago was about to tell her, then he realized he would expose himself. As far as she knew, he had passed that same exam a long time ago.

"The usual bullshit" he replied then, evasively.

"Why don't you ever tell me anything about your studies? Are you afraid I couldn't understand? Do you think you're the only genius?"

"I never thought that," he mumbled, starting to get fed up.

"Look, anyway I was calling you for a reason. You remember, don't you?, that on the 11th of November we have to pay the first deposit for our trip to Formentera."

Iago, unseen, looked up at the sky.

"Yeah."

"Well, good," she went on, petulantly. "I'm glad you do."

When he hung up, Iago was relieved. That damn trip to Formentera that he had no intention of doing. And which cost pretty much one thousand euro. Then he turned over the phone in his hands. He thought for a moment. Then he dialed Elena. On the third ring, which seemed to him like an eternity, she answered.

"Hello, how are you?"

"Fine. How's your tooth?" he asked back.

"Worse and worse. Now not even codeine helps anymore."

"Look, Elena, I was thinking... you shouldn't have that premolar removed."

"No? And what else should I do? Keep the pain for life?" Elena said, quite annoyed. What the hell did his friend have in mind?

"Go to a private dentist, ask him to crown it. I have the solution for everything. Do you trust me, Elena?"

On the other end, the girl didn't understand.

"Generally, yes, I trust you, but..."

"Then cancel the appointment for the 11th of November and go to a regular dentist!"

After hanging up, Iago, barefoot, ran to his mother.

"Mom, I have to ask you something. You know the money I asked for next summer in Formentera, with the down payment, and so on?"

Ornella looked at that desperate son of hers from head to toe. His hair was more disheveled than ever and he looked impatient. She wondered when he would make up his mind and give up the university farce. When will that time finally come? Maybe it had come now?

"Well, I need the money now. Immediately. That is, almost, let's say in a couple of months."

Obviously, the time of his surrender had not arrived yet.

"A thousand euro in two months, Iago?" Ornella protested in alarm. "Can you tell me what the hell do you need it for? Tell me, sort of debauched, isn't your weekly dose of cannabis enough anymore? Did you move to heavier stuff?"

"I'll return them all Mom, all, to the last penny. But I need them. I'm going to work here and even somewhere else, if you want. But you have to give them to me."

Ornella sighed. Up to what point did she have to let him get on with it before putting a veto on everything?

"Could you at least you tell me what you need them, for? Because they are not for the holiday, admit it."

"I swear, they are for a good cause. To help a friend."

A friend? And since when did Iago have friends to help?

"Okay. But it's a loan. I want everything back."

"Thank you, Mom, thank you very much," and so saying he planted a big kiss on her cheek, as he hadn't done for months.

To Ornella it seemed that in the eyes of her son had returned a light that had disappeared too long ago.

56.

Atmore, Alabama

Claustrophobia. That was the feeling that permeated Mac since he entered the fortress of Atmore, Alabama Department of Correction. One thing he had to admit; his fame had done little or nothing, and the treatment he had received was the same as everyone else's. Now that was democracy. So Mac, although he was known all over the world, had had to produce pages and pages of documents, including ID photos, he had had his fingerprints taken, he had been scanned by metal detectors even in his underwear and eventually had had an identification mark visible to ultraviolet drawn on his hand; its presence would be checked when he came out to prevent some prisoner to try to pass as him and evade. From what little he knew of Luis Crawford, he would have an hard time doing that. Luis was black, two meters tall and of sensational size, while Mac was a fawn Irishman with long wavy hair, blue eyes and a pair of black-rimmed square glasses. However, Mac had subjected himself to all the limitations of the case. He wore long trousers as required by the rules – not that he had ever intended to show up in shorts – he had left at home the cap he usually pushed over his head and had taken off any kind of jewel and electronic equipment, including his phone. And of course he had gone there sober, under penalty of cancellation of his permit to visit. And now there he was, with just twenty dollars in his pocket – the only ones allowed – wearing a shirt and classic trousers in a white tiled room a few square meters large, with a table, two chairs and a minuscule window, waiting to meet the friend of his friends. Before accessing that room he had been led through a corridor with gates that promptly closed again behind him, waiting for those in front of him to be opened, and that had caused an immediate attack of anxiety and claustrophobia . So now he stood in that little room wondering how you could live or even work in a place like that, with a minuscule window and a handful of oxygen. Mac did not know if the conversation would take place in that room rather than in a common parlor, because of its notoriety – which would have been the only concession to his VIP status – or to Luis' situation, but he decided not to investigate or ask. In the end it didn't matter. Rather, he was scared by not knowing what to say to that poor wretch once they were face to face. And when the iron door opened, and the prisoner came in, escorted by two guards, Mac, with no more saliva in his mouth, tried in vain to swallow. Why was he so anxious? After all it wasn't him who was going to die. But the responsibility to ruin or not the last days of a condemned man made him seriously apprehensive.

Luis was really huge, but completely helpless. He had the size of a strongman and a childlike smile.

"Hello," he said jovially. "Then you really came! Ted told me, but I almost couldn't believe it! It seemed impossible!"

"It doesn't seem real to me either," said Mac, with an embarrassed smile. "To get in here I had to fill a thousand documents, all complicated by the fact that I am a European and not an American citizen, and I missed I don't know which security code... Even if, in fact, I've been living in California for a few months already..."

There was a moment of silence, that Luis broke with a joking comment, "Well, I couldn't die before meeting the legendary Julian MacGregor! Man, can I tell you? In here we don't have many distractions, but sometimes we happen to see some good movie... And you're great ! When you save the world in "New War of Independence" you're awesome. I know that recently another movie of yours about aliens came out, I fear that I won't have a chance to see it..." he concluded with a sad face, devoid of any irony.

"Oh, my boy, believe me, you won't lose anything. That film was a flop, demolished by critics and audience. When it came out I wanted to die..." the star said, then he immediately noticed his blunder. "That is, I mean, I was very disappointed..."

Mac blushed completely. He was embarrassed, but not only for having said an unfortunate sentenced. The truth was that he would have really liked to disappear from the face of the earth because of that movie failure. He really had wanted to die, and now that he had a dead man walking in front of him he was terribly ashamed. Luis hoped to live, unlike him, even if the only alternative to what was waiting for him was a life sentence and a life spent rotting in the can.

However, Luis didn't seem to have taken offence.

"Is it really such a bad movie? I can't believe it. When the cast includes actors at your level, it's impossible that it sucks so much, Julian."

"You think so?" Mac looked at him wide-eyed. He kept being under the impression that the more balanced between the two of them was Luis, who at the moment must be desperate, with a heavy heart and death leaking from every pore of his skin and whom, however, showed a calm, a dignity and suavity that he would never have expected to find in a person waiting for a lethal injection. "Anyway, please, call me Mac, as all my friends do, including Futura and Patrick."

"Ah, Futura and Patrick! Such good people!" Luis brightened. "And they have a wonderful little girl! She's almost a niece to me, you know? After all we are relatives of relatives of relatives! And now they are having another! A pity I won't see her before I go," he added with calm grief. "But you too have children, don't you? How are they?"

They went on for more than half an hour. On Luis request, Mac spoke of Roberto and Oliver, of how he had met Futura and Patrick, and also of Connie. Luis listened to him eager for information and life. Mac looked at him for a long time. If it weren't for his current situation, most likely Luis would have shown his nature of happy and ironic boy. Throughout the conversation Mac tried to seize any detail revealing that Luis, the murderer, the criminal, had anything monstrous, abnormal. He found nothing unusual, except his physical size. There was nothing that could lead Mac to have a different impression. Luis was an absolutely normal man, full of good feelings, who only wished he could go on living. He had shown his fondness of Patrick and Futura, tenderness toward children, love for his brother Ted, admiration for Mac's film career, remorse for the murder he had committed, and also a decent culture about the American basketball league. Could he be a manipulator? A psychopath pretending to be repentant and redeemed in order to win his sympathy? Maybe, but Mac at that point, after observing him so well, after listening to him, could no longer believe that. Except for the sad look in his eyes and the anguish in his chest, Luis was a pleasant person, and a couple of times he had even let out some booming laughter, when Mac had told him of Oliver's mischief and mentioned a pair of catastrophic anecdotes occurred on set.

"And how is Susan Stuart, live?" Luis asked, referring to the Hollywood actress, a former lover of Mac.

"A great, great hottie. But don't you tell my girlfriend, she might be jealous" he said, winking and thinking to himself that he was not even sure he still had a girlfriend.

On cue, the warden announced that they had only one minute left.

On the now relaxed face of Luis, the smile faded, as if not only the conversation had ended at that moment, but a part of his life as well.

"Luis, I have some influence, in some respects, and I will do everything possible for you to be granted a pardon. I will write to the Governor in person, and he will have to listen to me," the actor said abruptly, unexpectedly even to himself.

Luis' eyes lit up for a split second.

"Maybe, Mac, maybe. I'd be grateful for life."

But then he did not want to delude himself.

"But don't fret if you can't do it. Here it works like this," he added, shrugging. "Thank you for coming, really. If I can't make it on November 11th, please, take care of Ted. He's the person closest to me in the world. He's the only relative left to me."

"I will, my friend, be sure of that," Mac promised, realizing that he actually barely knew Ted.

"And also say hello to Futura and Patrick for me, tell them they have been great friends. Hug them tight for me. I don't know what I would have done without them in the last eight years."

"Count on it, man," Mac said, squeezing his forearms.

"Thanks for everything, boy, thank you for this visit and... farewell," Luis concluded as the wardens were bringing him back to his cell.

"Farewell..." Mac echoed, without any energy left.

The speed with which he found himself out of the prison left him speechless. Or maybe it was just an impression. In fact, when the fortress was finally behind him, he felt like fainting. That conversation, that initially had anguished him so much, had been completely different from what he had imagined and, among other things, time had flown. He had not had to say or do anything of what he had feared – comfort the prisoner, wish him a happy death or promise to pray for him – because Luis had put him completely at ease. How was that possible?

And now that he was alone in his hotel room, in front of his laptop, writing to the governor of Alabama, he was starting to realize that the man with whom he had just had a pleasant conversation, after a few days would no longer be there, because the state of Alabama had decided, with an aseptic sentence, with a signature on a sheet of paper, to coldly put an end to his existence because of a serious crime yes, but committed fifteen years ago, without having the faintest idea of who Luis Crawford really was, of whom he had become in fifteen years spent in prison, and all that was terrible. And this was what he was writing to the Governor; Luis Crawford wasn't the monster that he had expected to find, but a sincerely repented man, who deserved to see his sentence converted into life imprisonment.

Mac sent his e-mail after re-reading it a couple of times. Then he contacted his press office to check whether anything more tangible could be done, to see if it was possible to engage in that battle at the last minute in a more official way.

Finally he called Connie, but he could not find her. Then, feeling alone, upset and down, deeming himself miserable for having wanted to die because of a failed movie, and wondering how could a State decide to coldly suppress his citizens, he threw himself on the bed and started to cry.

57.

London

Once settled at the home of her sister in law, Futura had immediately sent the latter to check how Patrick was. In leaving she had only had one reason to hesitate, thinking that he, already despairing on his own, could make some extra misdeed. Once she verified through a third party that he was in a decent state, and after an appropriate dose of diazepam he had fallen asleep like a baby, she had abandoned herself to her gloomy thoughts.

For months she had been tormented by the idea that Marina could be jealous after Emma's birth, and now she realized with annoyance that that was the least of her problems. If Patrick really had a thirteen years old daughter, jealousy would be of a very different nature. She foresaw having to let that unknown girl in her house every other weekend and to limit the moments of intimacy with her husband to leave room to the relationship he had to build with his eldest daughter. No, she did not like that at all; in fact, it aroused some jealousy in her even before than in her daughters.

Having a man who was already a father was one thing. But finding out of a completely new heir like this, out of the blue, was something that shattered her plans completely. She didn't deserve such a punishment.

Also because she was familiar with the subject and that type of trauma. She had found out about the existence of Giovanni, her elder – then eighteen years old – half brother when she was sixteen. And what had that situation led to? Just a big mess, years of self-reclusion spent in college, until her "escape" to London, looking for a life that did not include extended families. She wanted an exclusive family of her own, for sure she did not want stepchildren scattered around the world.

To tell the truth, she had to admit, she could not complain having lacked love or attentions from her parents after Giovanni's arrival. Actually, her father had kept considering her his beloved princess, maybe even more than before. It had been the new, chaotic context which had caused her escape. After all, all together in that farm... In case, she and Patrick would find a better organization, with less promiscuity. Besides, in more than one occasion she had wondered what added value she had obtained by knowing Giovanni, so introvert, so shy...

She was interrupted in her thoughts by Hannah's return.

"A cup of tea?" her sister in law suggested.

"Better a chamomile, thank you," she replied, struggling to stand up from the armchair in which she had sunk.

They sat at the table.

"My brother is really feeling bad, you know?" Hannah started, with her husky tone, dipping the teabag. "Why don't you call him?"

"Your brother lied to me for weeks," she said, dry, and more harsh than she cared to show. "And he's not the only one, lately. Even Elettra did her best. It seems that the two people I trusted the most in the world started competing to make a fool of me."

"Listen," Hannah went on, calmly, "I don't know what to say about Elettra. But that candid soul of Patrick is not, genetically, a liar. If he were, if he were a serial liar, he would have handled the whole situation with a detachment he didn't have. He feels bad, he's devastated, both for the trouble he found himself in, and, above all, because he fears your reaction, and doesn't want to lose you. All that he did was just to protect you. And he loves you like crazy. But he suffers your judgment. Perhaps he would have lived the story about this girl more lightly if he hadn't thought that her existence might annoy you."

"And he's right fearing my judgment. If this story proves true, it will be a huge problem for everyone. When he was eighteen he behaved like a real jerk and this is a fact. Getting drunk and knocking up a girl he didn't even like... And now we could all suffer the consequences, starting with Marina and Emma."

"At eighteen perhaps, indeed certainly, he was a jerk. But since he's been with you he always behaved well. Now he's no longer that stupid teenager. He is another person, he's your husband. Just think about this. I have always greatly admired the way he takes care of you. To me he's an example to follow, and I don't say this because he's my big brother. And he's more worried about you than about himself. He did nothing but ask me how was your pressure," Hannah added, bringing the honey to the table.

"My blood pressure is perfect, which proves that what happened when I was pregnant with Marina had nothing psychological, but was a merely physical issue. Now I have no symptoms, not even the tiniest headache," Futura affirmed, stirring the steamy cup with the spoon dipped in honey.

"Why don't you tell him yourself? Patrick would be better, at least he would feel relieved. How long are you going to keep avoiding him?"

"I don't know," she replied with a blank stare. "Maybe until the matter will start to burn less. For now, it still hurts."

58.

Cristini

"Dear Iago, my love, I am writing you because when you're gone I miss you so much. I don't know how to explain it, but I feel empty without you. Maybe because I love you so much. That must be why. But why must love hurt so much? Still we suffer for love. Much. Whenever you're not there, I'm sick. After we part, after we've been together, melancholy seizes me, starting from my stomach and coming up to my head. When you kiss me, when we make love, those are times I wish would never end. But then you move away, you walk away and then I'm afraid that you're leaving me forever. I don't know if it's because you do not give me certainties, or because you are fine even when you're alone, but this hurts me, because it seems to me that you live well even without me and I really don't know how you can. Without you I feel like I'm missing something. I go crazy. I want us to stay always close, forever and ever. If you left me, I don't know what I could do... My life would no longer make sense. Sometimes, then, I feel you so distant... Lately it's worse. Even when we are together, when we kiss, I fear that you're thinking about something else. Oh my God, maybe I'm paranoid. But if I opened my heart it's to tell you that I trust you and I want you to know how I feel, I want to make you understand how badly I live when you're not here, I want to share all this with you. At least you'll understand my sensitivity, you'll understand that love is this to me, sharing every single moment with the other person, and maybe, after reading my letter, you too will want to spend more time with me, because you will have understood how important it is. I can't wait for this summer, to go to Formentera together and live a dream holiday with you. A week always together is the most fantastic thing that could happen! I love you so much I could die <3 <3 <3, forever yours, Fabi."

Iago reread in amazement the crazy lines that his girlfriend had written in his own hand and personally delivered to him the last time they had parted. The words were written on a pink-lined notebook page, scribbled in a thick, rounded, sloping back handwriting. The dots on the "i"s were actually a sort of hearts.

That letter had indeed achieved a result; awakening in him a sudden and violent awareness. He had not yet realized that the situation was at that point. It was clear that Fabiana was a bit oppressive and intrusive, but what her jealousy implied hadn't been clear until now. Now, however, he knew; the girl literally pined for him, suffered in his absence, would cut her wrists to have him by her side. Not that her words, "I love you so much I could die," were necessarily to be taken literally (or were they?), but still, who knew, maybe it was better not to underestimate the problem. Which was a big responsibility. A great moral blackmail. And how stupid had he been. Hanging out for months with a girl without really being in love with her. Big deal. Iago felt guilty for his shallowness. He had never been listening to her, he had never cared about who Fabiana really was. Now he knew; she was a quite fragile and dangerous creature at the same time. Who came out with a tear-jerking letter just after he had decided to test the waters, to start telling her that maybe, it wasn't sure yet, they wouldn't be able to have that holiday in Formentera. That his mother Ornella had put up her nose, that she needed him at the farm in summer, and then there was his graduation. That had been the result, the clear and straightforward consequence to his attempt to play safe. A fine psychological pressure that prompted him to run with her to the sea, refusing to give that money to Elena, who still had no clue of what he had in mind, but at that point was expecting something all the same.

A fine mess, the one he had put himself into. Congratulations.

59.

Atmore, Alabama

"Message from the Governor of Alabama to Mr. Julian MacInnes.

Thank you for contacting me and sharing with me your doubts concerning the case of Luis Crawford.

Fifteen years ago, Mr. Crawford infringed the penal code committing murder. That evening Mr. Crawford waited for Mr. Johnson in the bar where they were used to meet. With an entirely fabricated reason from his part, they came to blows and he beat his victim, hitting him a number of times. At some point Mr. Crawford pulled out a knife he had brought from home and hit Mr. Johnson with it, killing him.

The crime committed by Mr. Crawford was found to be particularly cruel and it has been proven through a regular trial that the murder was voluntary and well planned.

The court has fully verified all the objections raised by Mr. Crawford and the judgment has been signed by both the Supreme Court of the State of Alabama, and the Supreme Court of the United States. Based on these facts, and because of the termination of the allowed legal proceedings, the death sentence was signed by me, according to the laws of Alabama, and scheduled for November 11th of this year.

Thank you again for contacting me."

Mac rolled his eyes and pushed back his glasses, unable to believe what he had just read. His first thought was, "This is huge, gigantic, mega-galactic bullshit! A form email that this so-called governor has surely sent to anyone who wrote him, without as much as a cursory look at my heartfelt request! What does 'Thank you for contacting me' mean? It is shameful..."

The second was, "It's a crazy distortion of reality. It doesn't even mention the fact that Luis was dead drunk that night, and also stoned with coke! His act wasn't the result of premeditation at all, rather of a loss of control!"

The third was, "Did this self-styled governor, whose smiling picture nods from his website, ever look at Luis' face? Has he ever realized who the man he's sending to die with a hand-written signature on a typed sheet of paper really is? I saw them, the eyes of that condemned man, and I saw no cruelty in them. I don't know the stages of his trial, I have no idea of the judicial acts that decreed he has no right to live, but Luis Crawford is not a monster, he's not a wild beast. I have no idea how he was fifteen years ago, who he hung out with, what was his concept of legality. I don't know if he was a degenerate, a bad guy, if he belonged to a gang. But today, after all this time, Luis Crawford is a decent person. I don't know about his IQ, or his personality, yet he doesn't look like a madman. The real madmen are maybe not inside the prison, but outside. Did he ever see his eyes, that winner-looking dude of a Governor, hunting for consensus? Did he ever talk to him at least once? Because if he did, maybe his conscience would awake, maybe he would notice that Luis is not just a number, not a vile being and not even a court case."

Mac realized at that moment something he had always known, that the ethical principles that had been inculcated into his head since he was a kid – murder is an abomination regardless of who commits it – had a meaning, and a new awareness exploded inside him, in his chest, hurting him greatly. Now that he had touched it with his hand, his aversion to the death penalty had passed from a rational level to a much more emotional one. Before he had been against it with his head, now he was also with his guts, in its deepest feelings. Maybe on death row there were criminals far more heinous than Luis Crawford, maybe that man wasn't the most representative criminal in the population of American prisons – it wasn't for him to judge – but still, every time the state of Alabama or whoever sent a condemned man to die, they killed a person. As hideous and as that person might be, they put out two eyes, suppressed a story and a tore up a family. Besides he had also spoken with Ted, at the request of Luis himself, and found a desperate man, perhaps more desperate than the dying man, who, on the day of the visit, had confided to him that sometimes he had to comfort his brother, rather than the other way around.

Ted was still hoping and praying for a miracle, poor thing, failing to resign to the fact that a bureaucratic mechanism, an infernal, unstoppable machine, could decide that since November 11th his brother, his playmate, the boy with whom he had shared a good part of his adolescence and beyond, would no longer exist. To Ted it seemed inconceivable. He said that sometimes life puts you under tremendous trials. Diseases, accidents, they happen and you die and there is just nothing you can do about it. It is the will of God, and if you have faith you are even able to see a meaning in it. But he found incomprehensible having to bend to the will of a wrong law, a perverse mentality to which he could not oppose. And prayers were useless in that case, because Louis' incoming death would not happen by the will of God, but for that of men in the full exercise of their power, and God, in the magnanimity of the free will He granted to men of power, would not be able to do anything. So since November 11th, after the decision of a Governor as handsome as he was stereotyped, Luis the murderer, who was just a beloved and only brother to Ted, would no longer exist. And he would not be able to talk to him again, to tell him about Cindy's progresses, and this tore him and made him terribly angry, because that consensus-seeking Governor with a prepackaged smile was a bloody murderer, perhaps worst of all the Luises on the face of the Earth, because he killed for lust of glory disguised as thirst for justice, but he was still a murderer with a license to kill, and the whole bureaucratic machine behind him was shit, but legalized shit.

And now that they had met, even Mac knew what it would mean to lose Luis Crawford.

Thus, drenched in sweat, he ran a hand through his long red hair as his glasses slid down his nose, then he grabbed the phone and dialed Connie's number.

"I know that things between us have gone for the worse, but you're still my agent and I need your help."

He explained her everything.

"I want to put my face in it. I, Julian MacGregor, want to rally to save the life of that man. "

"Okay, Mac," she replied in her sweet voice. "Let's see what we can do."

60.

Turin

Teresa could not take it anymore. All the calls from Manuela to Giovanni in the previous months, in an attempt to win him back, now had turned into persecution directed at her.

"Teresa, you must help me!" had been the debut, the same evening of the dinner went wrong.

Manuela had grabbed the phone just after Giovanni had left her apartment and immediately bothered her client.

"Only you can do something for me! Tonight everything went wrong! You have to talk to my husband, you have to convince him to reconsider the matter from another point of view! You and I are friends, aren't we?"

Teresa, who had been awakened by the phone call and was still sleepy, had answered, yawning and rubbing her eyes, "And what do you think I could do?"

"Stay after him! Try to understand what he has in his head! You see him every day! You eat with him at lunch! I believe he's hiding something from me! He has no reason to refuse to come back to me, but I'm afraid he has another, he might have met some girl he's interested in! Please, find out what the hell he's doing, try to figure out what he has in mind! If I have a rival, I absolutely want to know! At least I'll know who I have to fight, " had been the explanation of Manuela, particularly upset.

Teresa, for the moment, had nodded and mumbled a, "I'll see what I can do..." said just to get rid of the inconvenience and be able to go back to sleep.

Manuela, however, was not satisfied and in fact, since the next day, she had started phone-bombing her.

"So, what did he say? Did he talk about me? Did he confess? Does he have another woman?"

Teresa had told herself she was an idiot. Why had she agreed to put herself again between those two? What was in it for her, after all? Let them do whatever they will! And if Giovanni had decided that Manuela wasn't good anymore for him, it was not up to her to insist that they go back together!

And so, on the phone, searching for the right words, tapping to all of her diplomacy, she had tried to reason with her, "Look, Manu," she had explained "no one more than me rooted for you, lately. You seemed to me such a beautiful couple, you are two lovely and fantastic persons, honestly, and I hoped that the situation between you could be resolved, really. But if last night Giovanni told you he no longer wants to continue with you, maybe you should take note of it and move on."

At that point, though, something had happened. Manuela had broken out in tears. A relentless and unstoppable weeping that Teresa had not known how to cope with and face.

"I can't lose Giovanni! You have to tell him how bad I feel! You have to make him understand that I will not ever let go... You are the only one who can help me! Please, you're my best friend right now!"

No less?, Teresa had thought. Her best friend? She hadn't imagined that Manuela was so lonely. She looked like such a mundane girl... Anyway, eventually she had let herself be persuaded, a little because she had been moved to pity, a little to stop the agony and torment of those sobs.

"Okay, come on, I'll talk to him. If you truly believe it can be of any use..."

61.

London

Patrick was trying to focus only on the work, because if he started rambling he would definitely go mad. He could feel his inadequacy as absolute. He thought of Luis and became depressed due to his sense of helplessness. He wondered whether Mac at least, with his sensitization campaign, would be able to deal with them. He was really doing his best for the cause. Asking him to get interested in it had been a good idea, the best. Who else if not him, who was a well-known VIP, could get visibility? That was the only sparkle of hope he could afford. But then Patrick went back to his torments. He pondered about Allison and felt like an incompetent and arid man, because he realized he could not feel any affection for her. And then there was his wife... His sister Hannah shuttled daily between his home and hers and brought him news of Futura and Marina, trying to put in a good word.

"Look, your wife is not going to leave you, that's not what she told me. She's just trying to digest the matter, because she feels bad. But think of the shock for her, how do you think she took it? Being about to become a mother and a stepmother at the same time... It doesn't happen every day, you know? Being pregnant is hard enough already..."

"But what do you know?" Patrick replied, at the height of depression. "It's not like you ever had children..."

"Exactly! It must be terrible!"

"But then, exactly, what did Futura tell you? What should I expect? Has she given you any message for me?"

"No, she didn't tell me anything I should report to you... But I'm sure that she'll get in touch sooner or later, she just explained that the wound still hurts, right now..."

"There, you see? She doesn't want to have anything to do with me," he added, shaking his head. "I've disappointed her. I proved to be different from what I was and soon, perhaps, our life will be different from what we had planned .. At this point, if she want divorce, I can only smooth the road for her... Please, tell her that I understand. Tell her that she is right!"

"But what are you ranting about? What divorce? And enough with this story that I must rely messages! I'm not a pigeon! If you want to tell her something, call her!"

That evening Patrick, grim as he rarely had ever been, had almost decided to write an e-mail to his wife. He had formulated and reformulated thoughts, actually he didn't really know what to tell her, but he wanted to make her understand that he always thought of her, that he felt guilty and thought she was right in her need to be alone, even if he was missing her. He wanted, however, that she remembered she still had a husband and that that husband, although he didn't have the courage to criticize about any of her allegations, although he had no right to demand anything, was desperate without her. He wondered whether that would move her to pity. In fact he did not expect anything in return. His would merely be an attempt to break the silence by which he was surrounded, that oppressed him. But he was sure he had hit rock bottom. He feared that his link with Futura had broken forever, regardless of whether or not Allison was his daughter.

Instead, unexpectedly, he found a message in his inbox, that had been there since the afternoon.

"From futurix@gigmail.com

To: patrick.p@gigmail.com

Sent at: 16:45

Dear Patrick,

how are you? I hope you're taking care of yourself."

"I take care about myself," he thought. "I'm not irresponsible. But without you it's not the same," he mused before continuing to read.

"I would first like to clarify a few points, to avoid misunderstandings. First of all I want you to know that I am not angry with you. I'm not mad because you did not tell me immediately about the situation you were in, neither because of what you did when you were eighteen. I must confess that at first a little anger arose in me, both for your past behavior and your present attitude. But I don't want to judge you for either. Who among us doesn't make mistakes? Who is without sin cast the first stone. It says so, right? Well I've done silly things in my life, and it is possible that they turn against me, sooner or later. So yes, even if at first your story shocked me, even if I reacted with disgust, believe me, I have nothing against you because at eighteen you've been nothing short of reckless. What you did then does not take anything away from what you are now and I have no less esteem of you just because of your teenager antics. Similarly, with regard to the fact that you didn't tell me about the problem, well, even in this case I was upset, at first, and yes, a bit disappointed. I believed I was your confidante par excellence; but then I understood, I understood the reason for your silence. You feared my reaction, you were afraid that I could misjudge you and that also my body would show its opposition by compromising pregnancy. And then I saw how much you suffered because this thing consumed you, how much you have fought against me and the girl. Therefore it would be unfair of me to be still raging. So about these two things, please, sleep quietly. Don't torment yourself, don't think I'm intent to weigh your sins, your mistakes of youth, and estimate the severity of your conduct, because I really am not."

Patrick had read avidly until then.

"Then why don't you come back home to me?" he imagined to ask her. "If you have nothing against me, what keeps you away?"

"The fact is that I am angry with myself, Patrick."

"With yourself? And why the hell...?"

"Even though I don't think I have anything to forgive you, you will recognize that your antics could have significant implications. This thing upset me for many reasons and primarily because it really pulled out the worst of me. The idea that you share your time with that girl, that you might bring her into our house and also become close to her mother, sparked feelings of jealousy and envy that I did not think I could even feel. The fact that these two women might subtract time to Emma and Marina (and myself) makes my blood rush to my head (figuratively speaking, my pressure is fine). And to think that at the beginning I feared the jealousy of Marina towards Emma. Who would have thought that the most jealous of all would be me?

I feel ugly, Patrick, because I thought I were a better person, more flexible, more welcoming, instead I am only a (mean?) woman with the instinct to protect my family from any external interference. And it does not matter if Allison is not your daughter, I felt all the contempt in my heart anyway; toward that woman, your presumed daughter, and, most importantly, myself."

"So what?"

"So I ask you to give me some time. If Allison is yours, I must digest this thing and accept it. As much as it bothers me, I will have to accept the situation, my new condition as 'stepmother' and all that will ensue. This at a rational level. But my heart is vehemently putting its feet down. So, in this sense, it is me who ask you for forgiveness. I thought I was a great, perfect wife. Instead I am just a woman, jealous of what she built in years of hard work and sacrifices and who, coming from an extended family, is not prone to make her daughters live that experience. If I let instinct speak, my only goal would be defending what is mine.

So I still need some decompression. I need a period of recollection and meditation to make a point with myself, whether Allison is your daughter or not. Please give me a few more days. I have to deal with my conscience, before returning to you. And maybe, if the girl is yours, I'll need an even longer time. Then we'll see.

Marina misses you. Tomorrow I'm sending her along with Hannah, so you can spend some time together. What do you say?

About the rest, I am not well. I look forward to the moment of the birth with a certain anxiety and, at the same time, I cannot help but think about Luis. We both have an important date, we expect an irreversible transition, in a few days, and even though the comparison is sacrilegious, I'm afraid I have a vague idea of how he feels.

Now I leave you. Know that I think of you very much.

Futura."

At the end of the letter, Patrick started to breathe again. He did not understand why his wife would punish herself with a self-imposed exile. But maybe there was still hope. Not all was lost. Before going to sleep, he just wrote her, "Thank you for your words. I just don't understand why you should be the one to feel guilty. You have no reason, really. Your reaction is human. Don't be so hard on yourself. I hope you'll come back home soon, to me. Shouldn't we wait until November 11th together? I miss you so much."

62.

Turin

Teresa had never believed that beauty and happiness went hand in hand. Not necessarily, at least. In her life she had already seen aesthetically handsome yet completely unhappy people, and others physically average but content.

And this had always instilled in her the hope that she, too, ugly duckling that she was, woman in her soul more than in her body, one day would find someone to love.

Nevertheless, looking in the mirror she had never liked herself. That face with hollow cheeks. Those skinny legs. The hormones she took helped, but not enough. Maybe getting older she would become fatter, but never in the right places. But now her anxiety about that had taken a different turn.

When she had met Manuela, she had admired her for more than one reason. She had envied, without malice or ill will, her long tapered legs, her doe eyes, her heart-shaped mouth, her oval face, her silken hair. Yet, confirming what she had always thought, so much beauty was not a cause of happiness. Her new friend, indeed, was quite dissatisfied. And to think that Manuela was smart, but she had not had much luck with Giovanni. Obviously those two were not made to be together. They were both nice people, but not made for each other.

Manuela could not understand that her husband was the most tender creature of the universe and really needed only one thing, cuddling. Although he showed an edgy character, although it was not always easy to deal with him, introverted as he was, Giovanni, who for a long period had been pining for the Woman of His Dreams, as he called her, did not need a femme fatale. He just wanted a bit of consideration. Probably it was a recent discovery to him as well. Maybe, initially, he believed he wanted to live with that charming girl full of personality, because to him that would mean breaking free from the status of loser that obviously he was sure he had. And for a while even Teresa had believed that his brooding with regret on his ex wife was a way to mentally get closer to a great love, in a period of crisis, but genuine. And Teresa had always liked great loves a lot. So she had encouraged her colleague to go forward, to overcome the difficulties that kept him away from Manuela in the name of a feeling that would fill any divergence.

But the more she watched Giovanni, the more she became convinced that pushing him into the arms of his wife was not the right choice. The supply was in total disagreement with the demand, and probably, even if Manuela was determined to persist in her efforts and did not want to admit it, it was mutual.

Giovanni at one point had made amends and realized that a beautiful woman totally dedicated to aesthetics would not warm his heart forever. Now even Manuela should realize that Giovanni was no longer willing to worship her unconditionally, so she would not know what to do of him either.

And to think that he was so sweet and he so needed a welcoming woman. Teresa thought that if she had ever had that kind of boyfriend, she would have known what to do, to make him feel appreciated, to increase the self-esteem he always seemed to lack, who knew why.

She had become certain of that the evening of their dinner. Giovanni had looked around, showing explicitly that he liked her nest. And then he had talked for a long time, visibly at ease, he who was usually so reserved. It had been good and she had spent a relaxed evening too.

But then she had yielded to Manuela's request to act again as a middlewoman. But this time she had demanded well-defined conditions. If her friend would write a letter to her ex husband, she would hand it over to him, putting in a good word. She was going to do nothing more. The bulk of the work was to be done by Manuela, not her. Let that blessed girl realize that she could not win back her husband through a third party.

Meanwhile, however, she had the sealed letter, written on scented, colored paper, and was turning it in her hands. Paper had always been the most romantic way to communicate. An e-mail would not have been the same. She would give it to him at lunch, before coffee. Maybe they would take a stroll in the company yard.

63.

Turin

After reading Fabiana's letter, at first Iago was tempted to run as far away as possible and disappear forever. So why was he now having dinner at her house, surrounded by her entire family? Why had he reacted in a completely opposite way compared to what he had expected? Guilt, his own, for not having noticed sooner how sick the attitude of his girlfriend was? For not having understood that what he considered "a nuisance" and "suffocating " was even worse than that? Or maybe he was afraid that his departure could spark an even worse reaction?

"An appetizer, Iago?" suggested Mrs. mother, with a broad smile.

"Some wine? This is Langhe Barbera, I'm sure that you, with the farm and all, will appreciate..." offered Mr. father, taking his glass and pouring the drink copiously.

"Another forkful of spaghetti?"

Around him there was a constant buzzing and Iago felt dazed. They were kind, the parents of his girlfriend, thoughtful, maybe even too much. They seemed normal enough, anyway, but they were always smiling and seeking his consent in an excessive way.

"The cake is homemade, with our own hands... Of course you'll be used to a different kind of cooking, more elaborate, with the farm ... But I hope you like it the same..."

"It's all right, madam, don't worry," he tried to reciprocate her smile. "Everything was good."

He wondered what all that fuss about him meant? Was it normal, or were they trying to get him officially engaged with their daughter?

He was seized with dizziness. Maybe he had overdone it with the Barbera. Damn Langhe Barbera. Even his vision was a bit blurred. And it seemed to him that the voices of Fabiana's family members were resonating, echoing in his skull. He no longer understood anything. So it took him a couple of seconds to recognize the ringtone of his phone. He grabbed that thing without feeling clear-headed at all. "Elio" had appeared on the display, the fictitious name under which Iago had listed Elena. Elena. After reading Fabiana's letter, Iago, cowardly, rather than distancing himself from his girlfriend, had started avoiding his classmate. He could not explain why, but his idea about the money, the tooth and the crown had seemed to him suddenly impossible. But he had said nothing to Elena. He had just disappeared, the coward.

He answered without thinking and immediately regretted it. How could he talk to his best friend while he was in the house of his jealous girlfriend who did not even know she existed? What an idiot. He felt he had flushed, his face was scalding hot, it must have been the alcohol. Yet he had always stood it well. With the last glimmer of awareness he started by saying, "Hello Mom!" feeling clever for the genial idea that had come to his mind.

"'Hello Mom? Iago, it's Elena. Can't you talk?"

"Is it your mother?" interjected Fabiana, at lightning speed, trying to grab the phone from his hand. "Let me greet her, come on!"

"No, my mother is in a huge hurry, I'll greet her on your behalf," he replied, taking back the device. "Tell me, Mom," he went on, talking in the phone.

"No, nothing, it was about that story of the tooth... you anticipated you had an alternative for me, but I did not understand what it was, then I haven't heard from you any more, so I wanted to know... because otherwise I'll have it pulled off on the 11th..."

"Yes, it is better you do," he said quickly. "I can't do anything anymore. Sorry... Mom... I thought I could do something, but I can't..."

He almost did not give her time to reply and hung up. He wondered whether Elena was disappointed? Maybe not, after all she did not even know what it was. Or maybe yes, if she had called him it was because she was expecting something.

Iago felt like a moron.

"How bad you are, you didn't even let me say 'hi Ornella'", Fabiana complained.

Since when did she call her so-called mother-in-law "Ornella"? Using her first name?

"Fabi, don't be rude," her mother reproached her, kindly, with a smile. "If she could not speak, she could not."

The dinner was endless. In dismissing him, on the landing, Fabiana, with her hands in the pockets of his pants, said, "Can you drive? Do you want to sleep here tonight?"

"No, what sleep?" he jerked upright, wriggling. "I'm awake, I had a coffee."

"Well, darling, then drive slowly until Cristini, which is very far," she added, tenderly kissing his lips. "Let's meet on the 11th in front of the agency for the deposit for Formentera. Don't forget. "

"And how could I forget...?"

64.

London

The first time Futura had given birth, a month before expected and under general anesthesia, aware of nothing, not even of having felt bad, she had not had the actual time to ponder about the birth itself. Now, on the contrary, the gestation was at full term, she had drunk the bitter cup to the last drop, and, starting to see the end of that path, instead of feeling relieved she was seized by an unexpected anxiety. And to think that she had wanted that second pregnancy herself, arguing strenuously with Patrick who would never ever let her run other risks. The birth seemed so far away then... Instead now it was a stumbling block, one that nobody would remove in her stead and that, from that perspective, seemed insurmountable.

She would have gladly spared herself the second cesarean. That gash in her belly, muscles sore for weeks, those residual adhesions... Something not to be repeated. Sure, at the moment you felt no pain, but afterwards, before you could start walking again, before you could recover your tone and shape... How could she manage Marina and her neverending demands?

But even natural childbirth, that she had not yet experienced, made her ponder. They said that the pains when pushing were unbearable. Those who had already experienced it had provided her with terrible descriptions. Sure, for some people things were better. Elettra had delivered Cindy in fifteen minutes without even realizing it. Would it be like that for her too? Unfortunately she knew she could not ask for an epidural, with her previous cesarean. So she would feel all contraptions one by one.

For a moment her thought went to Elettra, who was still in London with Jaden. She had written, in a text, that she was not going to be back in New York until Emma was born. Elettra was determined to make peace, she swore that there had just been a big misunderstanding. She had even started working remotely again, but she would not move from London until she had an explanation with her, possibly after the birth. But she had not even answered. She was too dazed.

Futura had attended a yoga class to learn how to control respiration. And also, with reflexology, homeopathy, autogenic training and many other more or less natural disciplines, it was possible to achieve relaxation under any circumstance. But, who knew why, at the moment she felt that all those disciplines were just bullshit, to the point that they would not be of any use in the end.

But it wasn't the physical exertion, the possible suffering, she was afraid of. Not only that, at least. There was also another disturbing thought that kept going round her head; would she survive?

The first time she had given birth to a daughter, it had almost cost her life. She had understood that only in hindsight, after she was explained the sequence of events that have occurred. She had nearly died that day, and although in the following weeks and months she had removed the idea, now all the drama of that dynamic, which she had only imagined, was coming back with a vengeance.

That day it was raining and the gloom prevented her from doing anything, so Futura, twining her hair between her fingers, basked in forebodings. Marina had gone to see Patrick and she was alone and melancholic in her sister-in-law's apartment, waiting for her or her housemate to come back with the little girl.

It was damn true that giving birth to a child was tantamount to having one foot in the grave. All of the sickly pictures of mothers on the covers of magazines let think that birth was a magical natural moment, whose success was entirely granted. And, indeed, the first time she had gone unaware to the appointment with the birth of Marina. She had come out of it shocked, traumatized, devastated.

However, childbirth was an opportunity from which usually two came out alive, mother and child, (and in that case it was a big party), but sometimes not. Every now and then one of them perished, and at that point, you could only resign to it. It happened that that date with destiny turned into a funeral, in a real tragedy. The first time Marina and she had escaped that fate by the skin of their teeth. This time, who knew. They could only hope. Now that she was more aware about it, her legs were trembling. What if she died? What if she left Marina alone, or both Marina and Emma?

In doubt, she took a pen and paper with the intention of writing some letters; to her daughters, to Patrick and also to Elettra. It would be sad to leave without telling them how much she loved them. And maybe she had better resolve pending issues with her husband and her friend, before it was too late, and set pride aside once and for all. She no longer cared who was wrong and who was right. If complication arose, at that point, it would be late for aftermath regrets. And she wanted both of her daughters to have a keepsake of her. But in front of the paper, she was at a loss for words.

Then her thoughts flew to Luis. She wondered whether he was feeling the same. Probably even worse. But maybe that feeling of having to go to an important date without the faintest idea of what was beyond the door, of what would happen next, after the trial to overcome, and about the radical change that would ensue, was common to the two of them. And the alternative was between heaven and hell.

Obviously there was a difference; Luis was going toward certain death, she had ninety-nine chances out of a hundred not to die at all, and her passage from one life to another would only be at a figurative level.

Yet, for some reason, Futura could describe herself with only one adjective; terrified. And she was wet with sweat, even though the season was not hot at all.

At that moment she felt her belly harden enough to take her breath away. Were all contractions going to be like that? It lasted a few seconds, then the grip loosened. Was that the start of everything, the beginning of the end? Futura wished with all her might to have Patrick, the love of her life, at her side, ready to hold her tight. He often texted her, since she had sent him that e-mail, and he had never stopped writing her, to say hi, to ask how she was, to repeat that he hoped to see her again soon. He was so sweet and she felt such a tenderness for him. She always answered in writing, but she had never called him. Maybe she should have.

Then she heard the cry of joy of Marina coming back with Hannah, and her melancholies melted away like mist in the sun.

65.

Atmore, Alabama

Mac was still in Atmore, lodged in a hotel room, and had decided that he would stay there until the end of that story.

Meanwhile, he had mobilized the entire world. He had issued declarations, sent press releases, appeared in magazines. He had had his official website updated. He had funded non-profit associations against death penalty. He had sent letters to the authorities of Alabama and the United States. He had sent formal requests for a revision of the case. And, most recently, he was preparing to organize the protest candlelight vigil the evening of the 10th November – which would last until the next morning, when Luis' death sentence would be carried out – with the protesters of the non-profit organization who waited outside of the prison at every execution, with lighted candles, in the hope that that life would not be suppressed.

"The actor Julian MacGregor committed against death penalty," were the headlines of newspapers.

"In Europe there is no death penalty," he had explained to a number of interviewers. "So I, Irish, have always been contrary to it culturally. But in the beginning, I must admit, I had strong prejudices. While not agreeing with the method, I believed that a convict to whom such punishment had been inflicted must necessarily be a monster, a vile person. Instead, after meeting Luis Crawford personally, I changed my mind. All my prejudices have fallen and shattered at once. That man does not deserve to die and I am confident that his case will be reviewed and reconsidered as soon as possible. Luis Crawford today is a very different person from the one who killed a boy in a brawl fifteen years ago. And I'd like to stress out it was a brawl. It was manslaughter, under the influence of drugs. Luis Crawford today is a decent person. More generally, I think it is only right that the United States reconsider the use of the death penalty. I know that something is already stirring, that the country is divided on the matter, that many states promoted several initiatives to redefine its scope of application. It's good. Those are big steps forward. As for me, I'm going to support and become a spokesman for this kind of projects."

For the first time in a long time, Mac felt proud of himself. He had done the right thing. He had stood up for a cause he believed in. He had even received a large number of support letters from his fans.

By the U.S. authorities, however, there was total silence. No one so far had given any feedback. As a matter of fact, Mac had been completely ignored. He was starting to wonder whether those officials cared at all about him, his notoriety, the bad reputation they would get in front of the entire world if the scheduled execution was carried out.

In Atmore he led a secluded and humble life. He was almost always inside the hotel, only on a few occasions he had gone to the center, and always alone, without bodyguards, without anyone to protect him, like a normal citizen. Only once he had met the members of the non-profit organization, who had started to come to the site for the event. Although he was there with the intent of using his public image, in fact he bivouacked wearing sweatshirts, jeans, and, when he went out, with his wool cap with a pom-pom pulled down almost over his eyes, hoping not to be recognized. To move around he had rented a car, an SUV, which was the most discreet model he had found. Rarely he talked to someone, maybe just a few of the local residents had understood that he was physically there. More than anything else he expressed himself through the microphones of the national newspapers and on blogs.

Atmore was a city far from big, indeed it had the appearance of a large village, with square, perpendicular alleys. Even its borders were square and brought to mind the subdivisions into lots made by the old settlers who had shared rectangular plots of land. It was cut in half by the main road, which ran from east to west, and consisted of a pretty barren landscape, with low, fair buildings, distant from one another.

He had been a few times at Atmore Plaza shopping center and at the public library. He had also found out that there were a hospital, two cemeteries and three parks worth mentioning on the south, west and north-east borders of the city. The prison was outside, to the north. He had no longer been allowed to see Luis, though. Still, Mac was feeling well, he was active and conscious of being on the right side.

That day, however, a few hours before the event, after ascertaining the enduring silence of the institutions, he had a bitter surprise. Leaving the hotel where he was staying, he saw that his rented SUV had been smeared with black paint with the words, "Mind your own fucking business, fucking Irish shit. Get back into the asshole you came from".

Mac's eyes widened in disbelief. He went back inside shouting, "Who the hell did that?! Has anyone seen anything?", talking to the old man at the front desk, the only one with whom he had exchanged a few words with some regularity. He was a black man who had taken a liking to him, and looked a bit like Morgan Freeman.

"Boy," he said, good-naturedly, "did you truly believe that no one would put a spoke in your wheels? And you really thought that no one recognized you since you're here? A lot of people here knows who you are and why you've here, and can I tell you the truth? Someone doesn't like it."

"But why? I want to save a life!"

"You know what the problem is?" the man added, quietly rolling an unlit cigar. "Maybe you're right, but people here don't like that a European attempts to impose his culture on them. Because death sentence, here, is a cultural thing as well. If we didn't want it in Alabama, we would have already abolished it. Instead there's a large share of the population who is absolutely for capital punishment. They see it as an act of justice, and the fact that you come here from the old continent to make a big mess to save the life of a black guilty man bothers a lot of people. However, don't worry. They never pardoned anyone just because some noble and sensitive soul asked for clemency or did all the noise you're doing," he said quietly, with a half-mocking smile.

Mac went back to his room, speechless and seized by the annoying sensation that the media cancan he had tried to raise was worth nothing, or even that, if possible, rather than lighten the status of his friend, sensitize the authorities, it had even worsened the situation.

November 11

66.

London

The envelope with the results should arrive during the day. Patrick had decided to stay home and, after contacting the courier to change the delivery address – now Futura knew everything and she was not even there – he had taken a leave from work. If he had gone to work, he would not have been able to do anything. So he kept going back and forth between the kitchen and living room, nervously gulping down hot coffee and iced tea alternately, which certainly did not help the situation. Then he thought he was at full term of a physiological gestation. He wondered whether Emma would be birth that same day or she would delay. The idea of the impending birth made him even more nervous.

When the bell rang, he literally jumped. He walked to the front door with great strides. He opened. In front of him there were Elettra and Cindy, with Jaden and his inseparable chewing gum in his mouth. On Patrick's face, a disappointed grimace appeared automatically.

"I absolutely want to talk with Futura" Elettra started, agitated, coming in although she hadn't been invited. "I want to resolve this matter once and for all. It was all an unfortunate misunderstanding. She is my best friend, there's no way I go back to New York before we have an explanation!"

"You're wasting your time, Elettra. My wife is not here."

"Ah, isn't she?" she said, surprised. "And where would she go, a few hours before delivering? Don't tell me she's already at the hospital! Then why would you be still here?"

"No, not in the hospital. She went on an errand."

"Sorry, and you let her go 'on an errand' with a belly like that? Why didn't you go with her? Why are you home and not at work? Say, what aren't you saying, Patrick?" Elettra asked, starting to become suspicious. "What's happening?"

But he was not willing to talk.

"None of your business, Elettra, so if you are looking for Futura I am afraid that you will need to come back another time," he said approaching the door and pointing at it.

But she did not let him deflate her.

"Oh, not even in the slightest, and anyway I'm here also to pick up the things I left behind."

Meanwhile, Jaden had settled on the couch and rested his feet on the table, after grabbing a couple of magazines from the basket to the left of it.

"Don't you have anything better to read?" he said after leafing through the first few pages with contempt. "Computer science, art, organic and newborns stuff. What a bore!"

"At least we update ourselves on something," Patrick muttered back. "Okay," he added, "pick up your stuff and then go away, please."

He had no time to finish the sentence that the doorbell rang again. This time it really was the courier, with the envelope he had been waiting for. Patrick's hands started trembling, and agitation seized him, but he did not want those two busybodies to know. So, without being noticed, he slipped away and locked himself into the bathroom. He opened the envelope, took a deep breath, and read the response. He felt his heart beating like crazy. He almost felt like fainting.

***

They were returning after attending a jazz concert, from under a tent at Parco della Tesoreria.

It was the end of May and it was starting not to be too cool any longer, not even at night. Patrick had taken her back to the front door of the college by his car. The air inside the vehicle was wet and the windows were almost fogged. Throughout the whole evening Futura had been under the impression that her boyfriend wanted to tell her something. He seemed thoughtful and hesitant, and in fact, now, when they should have parted, looking beyond the windshield, he was starting a strange speech, "You know that after my brain hemorrhage, the relationship with my father have definitely cooled... We live in the same apartment, but we do our best not to meet, therefore I don't want to stay much longer in that house... In July I'll graduate, then I'll be free to go. Well, I wanted to tell you that, after thinking about it for a long time, I sent my resume to a company in London, and today they answered me. They'd be willing to let me try and I would gladly accept. Imagine that they are developing a new technology for the mobile phones of the future, without keys," he specified, his eyes shining. "Basically they are offering me my dream job, so I'm seriously considering to move there. I would also be much closer to my mother and..."

Futura had felt swept off her feet. At the moment, that statement had seemed to her an elegant way to dump her. Patrick had already mentioned before his idea of going to live in the UK and leave Italy, but it had always seemed a remote thing.

"I understand," she stammered. "I understand. If it is your dream job, you should accept. But I don't think that a long distance relationship..."

"No, no!" he interrupted her, alarmed. "I haven't been clear! I wasn't thinking about a long distance relationship at all! On the contrary, I was hoping you would come with me! In autumn you'll start your third year and you may consider the possibility of an experience abroad, an Erasmus, what do you say? There are interesting options at the Polytechnic Institute with which you would be able to complete your studies, maybe choosing a specialization..."

"You'd want me to come to London with you?" Futura asked, staring in disbelief. "Me in London?"

"I don't see you excited" he was left dumbfounded. "I wonder why I assumed that living in the UK would send you to the seventh heaven. I'm sorry," he quickly added, weaving a hand to hers. "Well, if you don't want to move to London, then we should consider other alternatives for living together."

"Living together?" Futura had widened her purple eyes.

"Of course! I'm not going anywhere without you," Patrick added, looking at her with excitement. "This is the most important thing! You know, I've been wanting to tell you for some time... actually since my convalescence in the farm of your folk, during Christmas holidays. I did not speak at once because I didn't want to put pressure on you, since we had been hanging out together for just a short time... but I've been thinking about it since then, if not since Christmas, at least since the New Year... You're the first girl I'm asking this to, before I met you the idea of sharing my spaces with someone struck me with terror! But waking up next to you every morning during those weeks was wonderful and giving it up afterward was hard. So I'd like that you and I might live together. I like to think I could reach out and find you next to me. You make me feel good, Futura Accardi. So I would try to move our relationship to the next level. What do you think?"

Futura was excited and her heart was beating hard in her chest. She too wanted to wake up next to Patrick and hold him whenever she wanted to. But she was also terrified.

"What if things go wrong? What if we were incompatible?"

"In that case we might as well find out right away, at least afterward we would be free to devote ourselves to something else, rather than waste a decade being fiancées and then split up because we're worn out, don't you think?" he replied with a shrug, starting to stare at something out of the window. But then he had looked at her straight in the eyes again. "But objectively I don't see why you should worry so. So far, things between us have been going full sails ahead. I feel good with you. And I would never dare proposing you this if I had not hoped that it was mutual. Because you feel good with me, Futura, don't you? You would like to live with me... I hope..."

"Of course, darling, of course. I feel good with you too. And your proposal flatters me and fills me with joy. Don't believe otherwise. But living together is a risk too..."

It's a risk, a risk, a risk... With those words in her head and in the middle of a contraction, Futura had woken up. She wondered why she had dreamed and relived minute by minute the evening when Patrick had proposed her to move in together. It had all seemed so real. A risk. The whole life was a risk, even childbirth. A new contraction took her breath away. It hurt like hell. At that moment she realized she was drenched in sweat and covered in a crystal liquid between her legs. Waters.

"Hannah! Hannah!" she called. "I have to go to the hospital!"

67.

Turin

Iago was in front of the travel agency with two hundred euro in his wallet, which even seemed to him to be scalding hot. Fabiana arrived five minutes later and threw her arms around his neck.

"Let's go," she said enthusiastically.

He eyed her from head to toe. She was cute, sweet, affectionate and had the eyes of a child. But their story could not last forever. In one year, five years, ten years, he could not see himself by her side. Never mind if she would not take it kindly. Never mind if she started haunting him on the phone. Never mind if she took on self-destructive behaviors. She was still an adult, a young adult, responsible for her own actions. And he would not have done her good, and neither his own, staying together with her a minute longer.

"Fabi, I'm not coming in," he said in a low voice.

"What did you say?" she asked, playfully, not having heard.

"I won't come in. I won't pay this deposit. I'm not coming with you to Formentera. Go there with someone else," he said in a louder voice.

She stood before him with a dreadful look.

"What do you mean?" she asked peremptorily.

"You deserve someone better, Fabiana. I don't deserve you. It's over," he looked like a good explanation to him.

The slap that hit him squarely in his face, a five-fingers slap that shook his jaw, wasn't foreseen at all.

"You're an asshole! You're a bag of shit!"

Obviously. Because in the world Fabiana, things were either as she said or definitely wrong.

"Think what you like. Now I have to go," he said, looking at the time. He wondered whether Elena had already had her tooth removed. Maybe he was still in time.

"You can't leave me here!" Fabiana protested, seeing him getting into his wreck of a car.

"Oh, sure I can. I'm a bag of shit, aren't I?"

68.

Turin

"Why don't we desert the canteen for a day and go take a Tex Mex hamburger at the 8 Gallery?" Giovanni had proposed, unexpectedly, that day. "With the 18 we get there in fifteen minutes."

Teresa, with Manuela's letter in her purse, had jumped at the opportunity. At least they would talk away from the office. At least she would perform the thankless task in another environment.

So, after a substantial and spicy lunch (since when had her friend started to eat so much chili pepper?), Teresa, sitting beside Giovanni on a bench in front of the restaurant, pulled out Manuela's letter.

"Here, look, I'm supposed to give you this..." she said, putting the envelope in his hand.

"From you?" Giovanni asked, blushing with embarrassment, his spectacles wobbling on his nose.

"No-no-no-no-no-no," she said hastily, "from Manuela, you know, she called me and asked me to give it to you, and she was really down, so I thought I..."

Teresa looked at her colleague. When she had mentioned his ex-wife, his shoulders had suddenly become hunched and his expression had changed abruptly. All of a sudden he looked suffering. So she, who had prepared a whole speech word by word, ("I think you should at least listen to what she wants to tell you, she really feels bad and she's sorry to see it, and blah, blah, blah ...") flushed everything down the drain and changed course.

"Look, Giovanni, I owe you an apology," she said hoarsely.

"An apology, you?" he asked, turning to face her.

"Yes, I went along with Manuela in her attempt to win you back. She's a friend to me now, besides she's my lawyer, and I always thought she was the right woman for you. But now I understand that she's not! So don't fret if things between you went wrong, it doesn't depend on you! The situation will never improve, because you really are incompatible, she is not willing to change and doesn't understand you, and the world is chock full of girls who would be more than willing to get engaged with you and love you the way you want to, and I wouldn't be a good friend if I kept telling you that things with Manuela will fix themselves, sooner or later. Forgive me for being so blunt, but I wanted to be honest."

Here, she had done it. She had confessed what she really thought.

At the moment, Giovanni hunched even more. Then he looked into Teresa's eyes and it seemed to him to be facing the sweetest and most delicate creature on earth. In hindsight he realized he wasn't even touched by the thought that she was an ex-transsexual. Teresa was a fantastic woman, humble and full of love. And she was there, in front of him, watching him anxiously, her eyes sparkling behind her gold-rimmed glasses. It was then that he, without thinking too much about it, leaned forward to kiss her. The sun streamed through the windows.

Right that day, Manuela had been involved by Marta, her colleague, and Monica, the secretary of the firm, in the search for a new perfume during their lunch break, and since she was at it she had opted for doing some shopping.

"If we get the 18 we get to the 8 Gallery in fifteen minutes, then for lunch we could have a salad at that little bio self-service. What do you think?" she had suggested.

So, loaded with bags and satisfied, she was walking in the wide white marble corridors with great strides, commenting in the meantime, "I wonder whether Giovanni has read my letter already, maybe he'll call me soon, I want to keep the phone at hand" when, all of a sudden, she realized that Giovanni was right in front of her, sitting on a bench , busy kissing that scrawl of a fake woman whom she had unwisely entrusted with the task of bringing her husband back to her.

In a moment Manuela understood that her humiliation was complete. That scene was not only before her eyes, but also before those of her two colleagues. So she had to do something. She launched herself at those two backstabbers.

"You! What the hell are you doing?"

Teresa and Giovanni jumped, scared.

"You! You!" Manuela growled against the former, that had instinctively stood up. "I trusted you! I thought you were a friend," she shouted, shoving her and forcing her to sit back down. "But you're just a snake that seized the first decent occasion to find a man!"

"No, Manu..." Teresa said "it wasn't my intention, I didn't want to!"

"Stop it! You are as false as Judas! You wanted Giovanni from the first time you saw him! You had already laid your eyes on him! In fact, look at you! I thought you were a friend! Don't you even feel a little guilty?"

At that point, however, Teresa answered in kind, "Manuela, you must believe me, there was nothing calculated in this! It happened, I didn't want it to! But, let's face it, you involved me in this, you decided that I should make you come back with your husband, but you never realized that he no longer wanted to have anything to do with you! So no, I don't feel guilty! I have nothing to do with your story, your marriage was over long before my arrival!"

"Obviously, I'm not going to carry over the suit against your family. The best I can do for you is give the documents to a colleague..." Manuela added, squinting with malice. "And anyway, you should be ashamed! You're really untrustworthy!"

"That's enough," interjected Giovanni, who had been silent until then. "If you must know, Manuela, it was me who kissed Teresa!"

"But how, Gio... " Manuela legs trembled. "Are you telling me that you prefer this subspecies of a woman, this adjusted former transsexual, to me?!"

"Mind your tones and don't be offensive. You talk so much about friendship, but your prejudices about Teresa, clearly, have never gone. Well, I can tell you that she is more woman than you, my dear. And anyway, I beg you, stop saying that you want to be with me. You don't want me. You just don't want to lose. It's something that always bothered you to death."

"How dare you say such a thing? What about our marriage, then? How should I consider it?"

"Maybe as a mistake of youth. Come on, Teresa, let's go back to the office."

And so saying, he put an arm around the girl's shoulders, turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Manuela in disbelief and red with shame, under the bewildered gaze of her two friends and the indifferent ones of the many passers-by.

69.

Turin

Elena was not answering her mobile phone. Could she be already under anesthesia? Iago could not remember exactly at what time she was supposed to undergo surgery or even at which hospital. Was it the Martini? Or the Maria Vittoria? No, le Molinette. It was for sure le Molinette. Eventually he remembered, it was there that Elena had to go, but if she kept that damn phone off maybe he would not be able to stop her in time. So he sped his car up – a rickety economy car that had been Giovanni's in its heyday – took three yellow lights about to become red – why couldn't his friend choose a structure closer to Fabiana's house? – double parked and went into the hospital – why couldn't his friend choose a less huge place? – and finally located the right pavilion, having to leave and go back in twice to reach it. When he got to the reception, he looked around. Elena was nowhere to be seen. Was she already inside? Had she already left? What if it wasn't the right place? He asked the clerk, "Has Elena De Angelis been admitted here?"

"Excuse me, but who are you? A relative? Her husband?"

Iago, absolutely exhausted, out of breath for his long run and short of bullshit to tell (he had really told too much lately) gasped, not knowing what to say, but, as he was trying to formulate a disconnected thought, a hand clapped his shoulder.

"What are you doing here?" It was Elena, surprised, wearing her usual leather jacket and her white trousers, her cheek still swollen.

"Have you already had it removed? Did I come too late? Have you already removed it?" he asked, meaning the tooth, and if he had been that kind of guy, he would almost start to cry. But he wasn't.

"I was going in right now, as you suggested me," she replied quizzically.

"Well, don't. Don't have it pulled off."

"Iago, please," she sighed, "would you explain me once and for all what is this about? What do you have to do with my premolars? Why should I forfeit this extraction?"

He took a deep breath, "Because I have a better solution, a regular dentist who would make a crown for you. I have the money. A thousand euro, give or take one hundred. They are mine. That is, my mother's. I mean, she doesn't know why I asked them. But this would be a loan, of course," he hastened to say, not to humiliate her. "You'll return them to me a few at a time."

Elena looked at him confused, as a voice called out, "De Angelis!"

"Are you telling me that you asked a thousand euro to your mother for me?" Elena blinked, as if she had not yet understood. Was she happy or not?

"De Angelis," the voice repeated.

"Why did you do that, Iago!? I cannot accept!"

Iago prayed that Elena was not stubborn, and that she would put aside her slice of pride, which was quite a bit.

"Because we're friends, because you have a beautiful smile and I don't want it ruined. Don't be proud, please!"

He might also have said, "I had to pay my holidays with this money, but I just dumped my girlfriend to run here to you, because I love you, and Elena, because you are the only one that really made me lose my head", but the voice repeated once again, "Is De Angelis here or not?"

"Yes, I am," said Elena. Iago swallowed. "But I won't do the extraction!"

Then she turned to Iago, "You are the greatest friend I could ever have imagined finding," she said, enthusiastically throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek. "Really, I wouldn't have said that at the beginning, but you're really, really kind! First the study, now this! You're a golden boy. Blessed the one who will marry you! Now, however, bring me to a proper dentist, because I can't stand this tooth any longer! And anyway, I will return you everything, Iago, everything down to the last cent. Indeed, if there is a way, I would like to repay your mother as well!"

Iago took her purse and took her to the dentist's, praying not to find a fine for the terrible way he had parked his car. He had done the right thing, but Elena only saw him as a friend. And he, on the other hand, could not take a step further. Was still the presence of little Tommaso what blocked him? Maybe, and after all it was no small problem. But for some strange reason, at that moment he could not help feeling like a certified idiot.

70.

London

The phone call came a few seconds later, Futura had gone to the hospital with Hannah, and Marina would stay with Marguerite for all the time needed.

"I have to go," Patrick announced, emerging from the bathroom where he was still locked with the papers in his hand and slamming a knee against the tub in his hurry. He saw stars. Presumably he would end up with a beautiful hemarthrosis, but it wasn't the time to think about it. "Get out of this house," he kept yelling at the height of tension in the face of Elettra and Jaden, who, meanwhile, had opened his fridge and served himself a generous bowl of cereals and milk. "Futura is about to deliver, I'm going at the hospital."

"At the hospital?" asked Elettra, alarmed. "I knew it, I knew it! Why did you send her out alone? "

"Oh, please, there's my sister with her! Do you really think I'd let my wife run unnecessary risks?" Patrick muttered, rubbing his bruised knee.

"Well, we're coming too!" said Elettra, out of the blue.

"No way. And they wouldn't even let you in. They just want the father, that is me!"

"What happened to you?" she asked, noticing that Patrick limped conspicuously.

"Nothing, nothing at all."

"Sure, I can see that. And I suppose you're also perfectly able to drive."

"It's not your problem."

"Patrick, stop it. Now we all go to the hospital. Give me the car keys, we'll drive."

He thought about it for a second. At the moment he could not debate. He handed over the keys and resigned to it, indeed he even felt compelled to say thanks.

The car trip was terrifying. Perhaps it would have been better to get a taxi. Jaden ran like a madman, speeding past all traffic lights with no signs of wanting to brake. Moreover, he was not even accustomed to driving on the right, so once or twice he almost took a roundabout in the wrong direction. So much so that at some point a policeman stopped them.

"We're about to deliver a baby!" Jaden defended himself in front of the agent, still chewing on his gum.

"You have a pregnant woman in the car?" the cop asked, stretching his neck.

"Yes, him" Jaden pointed at Patrick, who shyly leaned out the window.

"Patrick?" asked the policeman, who was none other than Philip. "Is Futura delivering? Where is she?"

"Hi, Philip! Yes, she's already at the hospital, we were rushing to get there. Sorry if I we were speeding a bit."

"Sure, I understand, indeed, I shouldn't, but I will lead your way," said Philip, getting on his bike.

Ten minutes later they were all in the lobby making noise, including Philip.

"Why are you here?" asked the nurse at the front desk.

"A birth, we need a wheelchair, quickly!"

"All right. Who's in need of it?"

"Him!" Elettra went on, pointing at her lame friend.

The nurse's eyes widened.

"I'm not sure I understood."

It took them the most of fifteen minutes to explain everything, including the role of the police in the whole thing. But in the end Patrick was escorted, alone, up to the delivery room. Suddenly he found himself catapulted into a cocoon-like environment; no more mess, no more chaos. Futura was in the half-light, curled up on a kind of armchair, wearing a nightgown.

When she saw him enter she lit up.

"You're here at last! I couldn't wait. But what happened to you?" she asked, pointing at the wheelchair.

"I banged my knee and I have a hemarthrosis in progress, but they already treated it!"

"Oh my God, I was afraid you wouldn't come!" she whimpered. "I missed you so much!"

"How is it going here?"

Futura froze due to a contraction.

"Awfully," she muttered. "It's a terrible pain. I had no idea it really hurt so bad. Please give me your hand... Ah..."

"How are you?"

"Like a sponge squeezed by a giant hand. It's the same feeling. It seizes me all over, back, ribs, belly... Oh, now it's gone. But it will still be hours before labor ends. I don't know how I will stand it."

" I will be here with you the whole time. Also because, with this knee, I couldn't run even if I wanted to."

"How I missed you, darling! Excuse me if I behaved like that, if I left, but I couldn't ... I wasn't ready to face this thing, I couldn't even look at your face..."

"But why? I really don't understand the reason for your embarrassment..."

"Then, when I made up my mind to call you, the contractions started and I had no time to... But it wasn't a bad thing all in all, you know? I had the chance to think about so many things..."

"We'll have time for explanations..."

"No, please, before another of those things starts, let me explain my conclusions... I was jealous of Allison. Jealous to death. But mine was only fear of losing you. But now I understood, you know? I must not fear anything. I must not be afraid to open my heart to something that is yours alone. So if the girl is really your daughter, know that I will help you build a relationship with her. We're going to welcome her in our family. We will find a way. She'll come every other weekend. And we'll go and see her. She'll meet our daughters, see them grow up. I imagined how you felt these weeks, which sense of responsibility you found upon your shoulders. It must have been shocking for you to consider all the alternatives. But you're not alone with her. It's not all on your shoulders. I'm here as well. I'm your wife, your partner. If you have this problem, I'll help you solve it. We'll carry this weight together. Oh God, no, it's starting again...!"

Patrick watched his wife's face, contorted in pain, contracting in a new grimace, and found himself horrified. Really delivering hurt so much? The silence was broken by the heart-rending cry of pain of his wife. Patrick had the impression that his blood was gathering all in his feet. He almost fainted. Thank goodness he was sitting. Meanwhile, she had grabbed his hands and was squeezing them with a strength he would never have deemed possible.

When Futura recovered from that sort of transfiguration, Patrick was finally able to focus on what she had just said. Then he thought he had in front of him the most beautiful and full of love creature he could dream of meeting; his wife, his rock, who, in the throes of enervating pain, couldn't stop thinking about how to ease his life.

"So I was saying... if Allison is your daughter..."

But he took her head in his hands and gently smiled at her, looking into her eyes.

"But she's not."

"Isn't she?" she asked incredulously.

"No. Today I got the test results. I'm not her father. Arlene is no longer our problem. We can go on with our lives."

Futura looked up.

"Despite my declaration, I can't hide that this news are a real relief."

"Don't tell me about it," he sighed, gently resting his head on her belly.

They were silent for a moment, with the feeling of having just laid down a boulder.

"I forgot to tell you that outside of here there are Elettra with her ape and Philip, who escorted us all the way here in his official capacity. Not a very British behavior. In my opinion, by constantly hanging out with us, he's becoming a bit Italian himself."

"Would you tell me what mess you've done, you with that knee, those two, and even the policeman?"

"And would you tell me why Philip is always around in the crucial moments of our life?" Patrick asked, trying, without much success, to joke.

"Are you still jealous of him?" she asked, indignant and exasperated. "In a moment like this you fear Philip's presence? Listen to me, Patrick Paul Sartoris Richards, I'll tell you once and for all, then I won't say it again. I love Philip. He's a great friend to me. I care for his opinion and his judgment and would never want to lose my relationship with him. But I've never been in love with him and I never will be as long as you'll be by my side. Because it's you that I'm madly in love with, and no one else. Is that clear?"

"Very clear," Patrick raised his hands in surrender. "And it's good to hear you say it. But I'm not jealous of him. I've no longer been for quite a while."

They looked into each other's eyes and smiled with complicity.

"You said there's Elettra?"

"Yes, she had come to make peace with you and then when Hannah called..."

"Listen, if something goes wrong, if got my finger burned, please, tell her that she's still my best friend."

"Why should anything go wrong, pray tell?" he asked, appalled. "Here you are monitored at all times."

"I don't know," she muttered, in the throes of a new contraction starting. "It's a feeling I have. I feel too much pain. It's not normal! Ah!"

Patrick turned pale again, as she let go her screams, squeezing his hands as much as she could. He felt helpless. How to relieve such discomfort?

"Ah, what a hold..." she cried, as the pain loosened again. "I feel as if I'm held in a vise. If at least they could make me an epidural."

"Do you want me to ask the obstetrician whether...?"

"No, leave it alone... There's nothing we can do. It will be a long afternoon."

"Is there nothing that would ease your...?"

"You could try and massage my shoulders a bit, if you can."

"Okay."

Another moment of silence ensued.

"You know who I was thinking about now?" she said out of the blue, as he stroked her back. "Luis. I wonder how he must feel now. The execution is scheduled in a few hours. It will be nine a.m. there, when it happens. Well, may I voice a weird opinion? Maybe all this physical pain leads me to unreason, but I made a prayer, days ago. I hoped I could be able to relieve his pain somehow, in any way, and now I'm here and I squirm in the face of this pain that seems senseless. Yet if I knew that all that is happening to me now could burden me of a part of his cross, well, I would be happy. That's why I grit my teeth and bear it. And, when I need to, I cry a little."

Patrick was not sure he had understood. But he kept massaging her shoulders gently, until the next contraction.

71.

Atmore, Alabama

Luis wondered how long he had stopped sleeping. But it no longer mattered now. That would be his last dawn, then he would close his eyes forever. He wondered whether he were ready, and answered himself he wasn't. Maybe because, in spite of the days spent thinking, in truth he still did not know clearly what was waiting for him. Maybe because, humanly, a voice inside him kept him hoping that a phone call would come, that his life would not be interrupted. That was the only thought that allowed him not to go crazy.

That actor had done a lot. He had pulled up a media fuss the half of which would have been enough. Ted had told him so several times while visiting him, to cheer him up. And he had been partially successful in instilling some confidence into him. The star was a good fellow. A good person, with a heart. He had looked a bit scared the day he had come before him, he did not seem at all the hero of the movies he played in. It must have been the lack of make-up. It must have been the light. At the beginning, Luis had even been a bit disappointed, finding in front of him that red-haired boy with a fairly average face, who did nothing but look around, wide-eyed. But then, seeing his commitment in bringing his case under the spotlight, Luis changed his mind. Julian MacGregor was truly a hero. Maybe he would not be able to save his life, but at least he had given back to him the hope that maybe the infernal machine he had ended into could refrain at the last moment from crushing him. But now the probabilities were less and less.

So he was not yet ready for that leap of faith, to let go, to close his eyes forever with the certainty he could never open them again. A few hours before the execution he wasn't yet ready, indeed, perhaps he was less than before. Yet, after all, what was he leaving behind? A cell of a few square meters, where he had lived for years and years, always alone. Therefore a single room, in the Hotel Suite he had got into. Mass showers where the water was never at the right temperature. Hot summers. Disgusting meals served at the most preposterous times of the day and the night. Breakfast at three in the morning. Lunch at ten. Dinner at half past two and then goodnight everyone, the day could be deemed ended. There you lived in a European time zone, although you were in Alabama. Visits were permitted only twice a month, on Monday and Friday. It was an indecent quality of life from every point of view, made intolerable by the attitude of the jailers and the inhuman organization, bearable only thanks to the letters received and the charity of his brother and friends who bought him decent food and care products through transfers sent to him at the prison canteen.

In short, he was leaving a hell, yet he was more and more afraid. The nightmare of that clear-tiled room where they would stick a needle in his arm wouldn't go out of his head. And that neon light straight in his eyes was not the best light in which to die.

Ted was going to be there, but he probably would do well to send him away. Maybe it was no good for his brother to see him. He would remember him in agony and that would be a trauma.

Who knew how long he would be suffering after the poison started to flow in the veins? Not for long, he had been assured. In a matter of minutes everything would end. But what if it weren't so? He too had heard the voices that told of convicts executed by lethal injection who had been there a lifetime before dying. The record was held by some Angel Diaz, a Hispanic who in 2007 had taken thirty-four endless minutes to pass out. The operators had later admitted they had made many mistakes. They hadn't found a vein, the liquid had dispersed in the arm, and then they had taken too long to make a second injection. And what did that poor thing, paralyzed by barbiturates, unable even to complain, feel? Was he aware of what was happening to him? Did he realize he could not breathe?

Luis prayed that he did not have such a fate. His huge size certainly did not make things easier for the executioners. They would really need an expert attendant to dose the correct amount of poison and find the right vein of his arm, which wasn't simple because of the muscle and fat he was padded with.

Luis thought he was about to go crazy. He realized that his thoughts and fears were now always the same and cycled spontaneously, every time more frightening.

So that night he had allowed himself to cry. He did not think he would be able to, but he had found relief in sobbing. At that moment he had thought about Jesus. He too hadn't been ready to suffer and die, when they came for him. In fact he had spent the night praying and moaning, alone, because none of his disciples had understood the gravity of the situation. And to think that Jesus, unlike him, was even innocent. Who knew how much sadness he had in his heart, for that extremely unjust condemnation.

Luis knew that Gospel passage by heart, it was his favorite, and in his head he had renamed it simply "Gethsemane", like the mount, also called "of Olives," on which Jesus had gone to pray.

"Luke 22:39-46 Jesus went out as usual to the Mount of Olives, and his disciples followed him. On reaching the place, he said to them, 'Pray that you will not fall into temptation.' He withdrew about a stone's throw beyond them, knelt down and prayed, 'Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done.' An angel from heaven appeared to him and strengthened him. And being in anguish, he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground. When he rose from prayer and went back to the disciples, he found them asleep, exhausted from sorrow. 'Why are you sleeping?' he asked them. 'Get up and pray so that you will not fall into temptation'."

Tears and blood. Now Luis, curled up on himself, with his head resting on his elbows, knew what those words meant, he had understood the full meaning of the expression "to have a heavy heart." It was clear what being terrified and alone implied, without anyone, without his brother, without a friend, without a priest, who could comfort him. But maybe it would be useless anyway. before death you are alone anyway.

He had liked that passage of the Gospel right away. He had always thought that people who really had faith should not be afraid of anything. Instead he had been living with a heart full of anguish and did not feel to be a good Christian. Then he discovered that passage and reassured himself. Even God made man was terrified and dismayed before the trial that waited him. So his anxiety was a very human feeling, and not for this anti-Christian. And the hope for resurrection helped him enduring it anyway.

But Luis would have done anything not to be there, at that moment. Who knew whether an angel would come down and give him strength. His mother, from heaven? Or Jesus himself, who understood more than anyone else what he was feeling? Maybe Jesus was near him right now, holding his hand in his personal Gethsemane. Maybe God would have mercy on his soul.

Luis was not ready to die, not in that unfair way, he would never be. But now he was beyond tears and maybe he would be able to appear before the executioner and his moral judges with dignity. He would not make a fuss, he would not cry. And maybe, who knows, in the meantime grace would come. After all he was still hoping.

With the thought that Jesus was his friend and was close to him in sufferance, and that grace could still come, without realizing it, he dozed off.

Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten.

72.

London

Futura was distraught. The contractions were very painful and left her no respite.

"Is it normal to suffer like this? It should be a time of joy, but at this moment I can't appreciate anything. It's not fair to suffer this way" she complained.

Patrick, white as a sheet, could not say she was wrong. That birth was a painful process was well known, but watching the show in person was another matter. Another couple of those contractions, some more heart-rending scream, and he was going to retch. It even seemed to him to feel the contractions himself. His support at the time was zero, he was afraid. He tried to be quiet, or in fact to say soothing words in order not to express his discomfort, but he felt too bad. He hadn't imagined that it would be so terrifying. If he followed his instinct, he would run away.

"I feel that something is not going as it should, Patrick. The pain it too much!"

That was obvious, but it could be physiological. But how could he tell her, "No, I believe that everything is normal"? Objectively, he could not. If his wife complained, she had serious reasons. Why not believe her?

"Call the obstetrician, I can't take it anymore," gasped Futura. "I feel like I'm dying. There's something wrong!"

He nodded and called for help, frightened.

The obstetrician arrived, phlegmatic.

"I'm sure everything is okay. Labor must take its course, there is little to say. The physical pain is absolutely physiological, and since we could not make an epidural..."

"No, you don't understand," bawled Futura with a furious rage that came out all at once and that seemed even excessive to Patrick. "I'm bursting! There's nothing normal in this! Make this damned birth end as quickly as possible or, if I came out of it alive, I will make you pay!"

The woman was unimpressed.

"You do well venting your pain, ma'am. You must pull out all emotions, at this moment... "

Futura felt like crying. Not only she was in pieces, she also felt completely misunderstood and alone in her pain. She felt like she were in a cage, unable to react, imprisoned in a body that was revolting against her, and not believed, not taken seriously, in her utterances of pain. She wanted to scream, but she no longer had breath. Patrick, however, met her look of anguish and understood everything. Maybe there was a way to help his bride; being her voice, taking her side.

"Would you do an extra check, please?" he asked the obstetrician in a gentle, but firm tone, leaving no room for misunderstanding. "If my wife is afraid there is something wrong, maybe she's right. After all this was supposed to be a test labor, wasn't it?"

The woman snorted, but then was convinced. Patrick saw her take on an increasingly weird expression and frightened. Which complication had arisen this time around?

"In fact the lady has spread much less than she should have... During last hour, dilation has practically stopped."

Then she took a device and put it on her belly.

"There's a little fetal distress... The heartbeat of the unborn is slightly slowed."

"Fetal distress? My baby is suffering?" Futura yelled, more angry than scared. "And you don't do anything?"

"Nothing serious, for now. The fetus is fine. I'll call the doctor who will surely proceed with a cesarean," she concluded, again without batting an eyelid.

"A cesarean?" Patrick and Futura said in unison, but with completely different expressions.

The former was aghast.

"A cesarean again?"

But she was relieved, even glad.

"Hurrah! Heaven be thanked! Do me whatever you want, but take away this terrible pain and pull out my daughter, because she will never come out alone!" she said collapsing after yet another contraction, with a tired smile painted on her face. "As long as this ends." Surgery was exactly the opposite of what she had wanted at the beginning. Now she wanted it with all her might.

"Obviously you can't assist," the obstetrician specified, always with that stinging phlegm, talking to Patrick.

"Of course," he repeated to himself.

"But keep close. In twenty minutes we'll bring you the baby."

Patrick gave Futura a kiss of encouragement, "Good luck, love."

"Thank you. And thank you for everything, honey".

He left.

When Marina was born, Mac was there with him. Of course now the situation was not so dramatic, but he would still have liked someone at his side. At the moment, however, there was no one. Hannah was at work, Philip had resumed working as well, Elettra was gone but because Cindy had to eat. His mother Marjorie would come later. So he was alone, and so was Futura, the real star of the event.

Patrick sat on the bench in the waiting room and rubbed his eyes. Waiting unnerved him. Tension took his breath away. He wondered whether this time everything would be fine. He wondered whether Futura or the baby would suffer. Had it been a good idea to seek a second child? He formulated a prayer in his mind. Then he realized that his phone was vibrating in the pocket of his pants. It was Arlene, her voice trembling more than usual, "Do you know already?"

"Yes," he replied. "And I can't pretend that I'm disappointed," he wanted to add, at first, but he did not want to be hard on her, so he restrained himself. "So, is Max the father?"

"So it would seem."

"Arlene, I wish you and Allison all the best, really."

He was sincere. For the first time, now that he was free from obligations and constraints, he felt a bout of tenderness for that woman and the girl. He wondered how it would had been to have a teenage daughter. For a split second he fantasized about it. But the problem was no longer there, and it was time to move to other thoughts.

"Now I really have to leave you, I'm sorry. My wife was just brought into the delivery room. Emergency cesarean. I'm waiting for them to tell me something."

"Oh, poor thing, how I understand her. It was needed for Allison too."

"Really?" Patrick considered that he had never wondered about that.

"Bring my best wishes to your wife."

"Thank you. Maybe, who knows, sooner or later there will be a chance to meet again and then I'll introduce her to you, along with my daughters."

"Most gladly," she said, and her voice was no longer trembling.

Patrick hung up and went back to wait and pray for the happy ending of that adventure to come soon.

73.

London

No epidurals, but a spinal. To be inserted in her back, between a vertebra and another, between one contraction and another. They had warned her it could hurt. Futura felt nothing. That is, she did not notice the difference. With all the pain of the sterile contractions that racked her, she thought they could have stuck a battering ram in her back and she would not even realize it. Then, within minutes, all that wringing ceased almost suddenly, her muscles relaxed, the suffering ended. Futura felt a sense of relief and relaxation she had never experienced before.

The doctors were working on her, bustling around her body and even talking to her, "You are lucky, madam, nowadays with a cesarean you can watch the birth of your daughter," but she was absent.

She listened, but she wasn't there. She was attracted by the light above her. So much so that it seemed to her, at one point, that that light dragged her up and she, looking down, could see the doctors and nurses cutting her belly and extracting the child. But she was not with them, she was above them and kept rising, in a sky full of colorful balloons. Until at some point a light that framed a familiar face came to her smiling, came so close as to touch her and, giving her a sort of kiss, whispered, "Thanks for everything."

Contrary to expectations, the touch of her right cheek against that bright vision gave her a pleasant feeling of freshness and softness.

Futura abruptly opened her eyes and looked around. She was still lying on the operating table where the doctors were sewing her up, and she had all those lights pointed at her. Leaning against her right cheek there was the face of her daughter, supported by a nurse, her eyes wide, probably trying to figure out, not without disappointment, why she no longer was in the warm nest that had hosted her for nine months and, by the way, where the hell she had ended.

"We extracted a fetus alive and vital of female gender. Time of birth: twelve past three p.m.," a nurse was noting.

She turned to look at the baby and she looked beautiful. A tear ran down her cheek.

***

Outside the operating room, Marjorie had come to support her son.

"I came as soon as I could. How are you? Any news?"

"Still nothing."

At the same moment the nurse with the baby in his arms and the stretcher bearer bringing back Futura to her room came out.

Patrick had a moment of uncertainty in seeing them both. He did not know where to turn first. Then, instinctively, he took the hand of his wife.

"How are you? Did everything go well? It seems to me that Emma is in great shape."

But she looked at him with dreamy eyes.

"Luis is dead," she said. "At twelve past nine, Alabama time."

"What are you saying?" he asked, rolling his eyes.

"It's the effect of anesthesia," said the nurse. "Sometimes it can cause mild hallucinations, but they pass quickly."

"I tell you that he is dead," Futura insisted. "But now he's in a better place," she concluded, with a great desire to indulge in a liberating weep without even knowing if she did it for the joy of the happy conclusion of the pregnancy or the pain for the murder of her friend, or in the hope that he was better, or all those things together. Then she thought that the day of the trial had finally come, and even if everything had gone for the worst, although both of her fears had materialized (first the pain, then the cesarean), she and Emma, unlike Luis, had survived.

74.

Atmore, Alabama

The small group of protestors against death penalty had kept vigil all night outside the prison, holding candles and signs.

Julian MacGregor was among them. He had nothing in his hands, unlike the others, and he had remained mostly on the sidelines, with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head.

It had been a long night, but now the sun was rising in the sky, among a few clouds.

At about half past nine, a spokesman hastened to say, "You can leave. The sentence was executed and the prisoner was pronounced dead at twelve past nine this morning."

The crowd of volunteers, now sleepy and weak, dispersed soon.

Mac, gloomy despite the beautiful day that was coming, got back in his car painted with obscene and offensive graffiti and decided it was time to go back to the hotel.

75.

London

The confirmation of the execution and the time of death came with a text from Ted, a few hours later, while Futura was dozing in the hospital bed with the baby resting on her breast. Patrick, reading at the message, wondered how could his wife know.

"It was a kind of vision. It seemed like a dream, but it was something more. I... it was as if I were outside my own body... what a strange feeling."

"But did you feel like you were... dead?" Patrick asked worried. That was really the last creature he allowed her to give birth to.

"No, not at all. I was fine, indeed. But... I was floating. And I met Luis, I'm sure. He kissed me and that kiss, I don't know how to explain it, became Emma's cool cheek."

At that moment the baby moved her head and wailed.

"God, how beautiful she is," said Patrick, in a bout of tenderness, stroking his daughter. "This girl looks just like you!"

"Well, I don't know. It's too early to say..." Futura added, caressing her as well, until her fingers brushed against her husband's, intent to pamper the little girl's body. "Now we have to introduce her to Marina."

"For now it seems that she took it well..."

"We'll see how it goes... Look," she said after a moment's pause. "I was thinking..."

"Tell me."

"I'd like to give Emma a second name."

"Oh, yeah?" Patrick was surprised. They had never hinted at middle names throughout the whole pregnancy, and for all he knew no grandmother claimed that tribute. "And how would you call her?"

"Louise. I would call her Emma Louise."

76.

London

For days that hospital room was a bustle of people. After Marjorie and her husband James, Philip was the first to show up.

"God, what a lovely girl!" he said excited, raising his hands to his mouth. "How small! We forget how tiny they are when they are just born! Congratulations, guys! I can't wait for her to grow, so my Diana will have a new friend to play with when she comes to London."

He had arrived laden with gifts in an attempt to quench his thirst for paternity, always partially unfulfilled.

Then came Elettra, alone.

"How sweet, how beautiful, how tender! Congratulations!"

"Thanks," replied Futura, with a smile, trying to sit up in the bed. The stitches of the cesarean pulled like crazy and she still could not move like she wanted. Pulling herself up was a huge effort and each time she felt like she was being torn.

"Oh, dear, I'm so happy for you two!" Elettra said. Then she started a targeted speech. "Futura, I hope that between us it's all right. You're my best friend, I'm sorry for the misunderstanding that was there, I had no intention of hiding from you what was going on..."

She let her talk for a while, then answered, "Don't worry, I'm no longer upset. We'll still be friends."

She was sincere, but she also thought that she would not trust Elettra ever again. Not because the other was bad, or because she did not love her anymore, but because she had proved to be a pathological liar. Unlike Patrick, who had lied to her with great pain and sorrow to hide a painful truth, she had happily built an entire castle, completely useless, to appear better then what she was. She had modeled the truth around her to her likings, manipulated her friends, defamed her former husband, and she had not even realized the gravity of that. In short, Futura was still going to hang out with her and love her, but nothing would ever be the same again.

"Now I'll go back to the hotel," Elettra said. "It's nice, that place you suggested me, you know?"

"I'm glad you liked it."

She was tempted to tell her, "Take care of Ted", but she restrained herself. She knew Elettra would never do that, busy as she was chasing her own happiness with her new lover. Elettra had accused the father of her daughter of having turned into a monster, of having gone out of his mind. If that was true, there was a reason; Ted was upset about the fate of his brother, because he had a feeling that with the end of the whole judicial process the death sentence might be signed at any moment, and she had not had the slightest sympathy for him. Or maybe Ted had no idea of what was going to happen to Luis but neither he had gone crazy, Elettra just found useful to say so. Whatever the truth, Futura was certain that any surviving inferiority complex toward the sister of his brothers would no longer have any reason to exist.

The last to come were Hannah and Marguerite, who looked at the newborn with eyes full of love and a bit of envy. You could see a mile away that they would have wanted one of their own.

Then mother and daughter were discharged, and once home they were joined by many relatives and friends. First of all came Ornella and Giovanni.

"You look good," Futura said, surprised, to her brother. For the first time after so long he did not look like a chronically depressed man on the brink of suicide.

"Yes," he admitted, blushing to the tips of his ears. "Maybe it's too early to say, but I want to tell you anyway. I met a person, you know? A really smart woman, with a capital W. If things go well, as I hope, next time I'd like to introduce her to you. I'm sure you'll appreciate her!"

"Really? I'm glad," she said, brightening. Finally Manuela seemed distant, she seemed to no longer be a problem. Incredible. She had feared that Giovanni would never get rid of that ghost. "And what's this beautiful girl's name?"

"Teresa. Her name is Teresa."

"Teresa? A great name. Very feminine," Futura added, hugging him. "This is wonderful news, Giovanni. I'm happy for you."

Finally, by surprise and at very short notice, after a couple of weeks after Emma Louise's birth, Ted showed up at their door.

77.

London

Ted was huge, almost as much as his just-dead brother, but his bulk seemed even more helpless and dull. He was very different from how Futura and Patrick remembered him. He had been always jovial and cheerful, exhilarating; he made them laugh until they rolled on the floor. Now he did not look like himself anymore, he was an entirely different person.

"Excuse me if I showed up here, but really, I no longer have a place to go. So I decided to come and pick up my daughter here in London. She is the only reason for living, for me, now. I don't care about anything else anymore, even Elettra can do whatever she wants, sleep with whoever she likes, as long as this does not hurt the girl," he said, slumped in their couch, lifting a cup of tea to his mouth and sipping very slowly. "Thank you for everything you've done for Luis, he died in peace, at least. Even the actor you sent to my brother, he was pleased to meet him, he lit his day and gave him hope he could obtain pardon. I, too, hoped until the last minute. I could not believe that eventually they would really kill him. Yet they did, even if I'm only starting now realize it. That day it all seemed so surreal, so unbelievable. The pain stunned me to the point that, really, I didn't even realize. Even the actor, I met him a few hours later at his hotel, was dazed, it seemed he didn't understand anything at that time. You could see he felt genuinely bad, he had taken our case to heart. We hugged and it was of mutual comfort. He told me he wants to stay in touch with me."

"Was Luis serene? He died in peace, you said?" Futura said, embarrassed.

"I don't know if he was serene. Let's say he arrived at his deathbed with dignity. They let us see him when he was already lying on the altar of sacrifice, with the needle in place, and it was all covered, except for his head and the arm. Between us there was a glass, obviously. However, he apologized to Seth's family and said that if his death could give them peace he was happy. Then he said a prayer for his soul and finally greeted me, thanked me for everything and reiterated how much he loved me. A little later he was dead. I saw my brother agonize for ten endless minutes and pass out, and it was terrible". Ted rubbed his eyes with one of his huge hands. "The only consolation was that after all he left in a hurry and probably suffered little. That said, my heart is shattered. Seeing my only relative, the boy with whom I shared childhood, leave this world due to an unjust sentence, dug a hole in my soul. I have no idea how long it will take to heal this wound, but I honestly fear that it never will. It will hurt forever, because if Luis had died due to illness or an accident I could still have lived with it, but this is an atrocity, as well as an abuse of power, and you can't resign to it, even if it is disguised as justice. And then there's one thing that offended me. A relative of the victim dared to say that the death penalty in the United States is not such a big deal, since the offender passes out asleep and without suffering, while in the world there are those who suffer much more. But does that idiot know what Luis went through in the last fifteen years? Does he guess what I'm going through now?"

In the end Futura, while nursing her baby, came forward and told him about the birth and the strange encounter she had had while in the operating room. She hoped to cheer him up, even though she was not sure how her friend would react.

"It was a kind of dream, of course, and I can't prove that it wasn't a figment of my imagination. But a thing like this cannot be a coincidence, can it? My daughter came into this world the very same moment when your brother saw the light of Heaven. It must mean something, don't you think?"

But Ted was a broken man.

"Look, the more my brother found his faith in prison, the more I lost mine. I have no more faith in anything, neither in earthly things, nor in otherworldly ones," he sighed with his shoulders hunched, looking limp. "Certainly not in justice. What about you, my friends? I apologize if I have come here to sadden you in such a wonderful moment for you. You made a wonderful creature. I'm sorry that this joy happened at the same time as my immense pain. I didn't want to spoil your happiness."

But Futura and Patrick told him that they had been up to their necks in it anyway, that they too loved to Luis and had suffered for him. And that they were not sad because the two events had occurred at the same time. It was as if Luis had made them a gift while going away, leaving them a memory of him, passing the baton to Emma. And, thinking about it, life and death were only beginnings, the two inseparable sides of the same coin. So no, the death of Luis did not pollute their joy, but rather invited them to ponder about the meaning of existence itself.

Then, the next day, Patrick, still limping a bit because of the hemarthrosis at his knee, took Ted out for a walk, trying to distract him. He told him of what had happened lately, about the matter of Arlene and his not-daughter, Allison. He did that to turn away his mind from the subject in vogue, so with good intentions. But in truth a part of him still needed to vent with someone. Ted's remark surprised him and made him meditate at length.

"But you see, even if she had been your daughter," he said, "yours would have been a life sentence". Those words sounded in Patrick's mind like "a sentence to live". And in fact having an additional daughter might be a problem, but it was still a sentence to live, as well as a life sentence. Patrick had never considered the matter from that point of view. Allison's presence had only terrified him, but maybe it could have brought good things as well. "But Luis was less fortunate. His only mistake of youth led him to a death sentence."

Patrick thought that more or less serious blunders made by young people can have serious consequences. Or not, if you were very lucky. And he, with his great luck, unlike Luis, had gotten away. Even though the results of his actions, perhaps, would have been less atrocious in comparison.

A few days later Ted and Cindy left for the United States. Elettra and Jaden would stay to enjoy London for a while, almost always staying at the same hotel, of which they had grown fond.

Futura, Patrick, Marina and Emma Louise were finally alone in their house.

78.

Cristini, Iago

Fabiana had haunted him for a long time by phone and also waiting for him at the university and outside the soccer field. She wanted to find out whether Iago had another girl or not. She hadn't been able to, if only because Elena had meanwhile left the bar and got a job at a call center.

Iago had rarely bothered answering her. Whether he did or not, she kept sending him letters of every kind. Once he had even threatened to denounce her for stalking, but she had paid no mind to it.

"I want to understand why you left me," she had ranted peremptorily at some point. "Why did you tell me I deserve someone better than you?"

Then he had answered, badly upset and ending up being more aggressive than he had meant, "No, it is I who deserve something better! You are too jealous and suffocating. You don't let people live!"

Then she had suddenly changed her attitude, becoming pleading. "Why didn't you say so? I can change."

But Iago shook his head.

"The fault is mine. Our story should never have started. It was a mistake. A mistake of youth."

Since that day, he had not played soccer any longer, and he even changed his phone number.

Until, one evening, Claudio called him.

"Look, your ex is back here, in the bar at the soccer field."

"Ah," he was not surprised.

"She was looking for you."

"No, really?"

"She's a veritable pain in the ass."

"I know."

Then his friend said something that surprised him, but not too much, "But she's hot. Listen, do you mind if I make a pass at her?"

Iago tilted his head back, trying not to laugh. Those two together would be an explosive mixture. The obsessive jealous and the chronically sex-addicted. Pushing laughter back, he said, "No, Cla. Do what you want. I don't mind."

Elena, with her brand new tooth, had wanted to go personally to Cristini, with her son in tow, to thank Ornella for the loan and ask her how she could repay her in full. Iago's mother was enthusiast to meet that girl, so much more mature than her son, so pretty, honest and well-bred, who had brought her shady little child back on the path of light, making him apply to studies with profit. A part of her, however, was tinged with envy. Elena had succeeded where she had always failed, in bringing out the best of Iago, making him smile, having him use his head, exploiting of all his potential.

However the two agreed that, for a couple of days a week, Elena would go to iron laundry in the farm, for four hours a day. And she would spend the rest of the day on the books with Iago, while little Thomas played in the yard. The solution seemed profitable for all parties involved. And to Iago it did not even seem true that his beloved friend could spend so much time with him, and openly moreover. And who knew, maybe in a near future that friendship could evolve... If only he could find the courage to overcome his hesitations toward her son and, then, talk to her. He had guessed that Elena liked him as a friend. Maybe making one more step would complicate things. Only one thing Iago knew for certain; in the meantime, he did not want to lose Elena.

79.

Turin, Teresa

Teresa threw herself on the sofa, among red and yellow cushions, happy. She still could not believe it. A boy, a nice boy, was interested in her. He had looked at her with an unexpected involvement and treated her like a real woman! Who could have guessed? Teresa had almost lost hope that that would happen, sooner or later. Instead he had told her some things, after returning from London. He had proposed to date her, to find out whether their story could begin. It seemed he had even already mentioned her to his sister, who had just given birth. And he had even promised to introduce them, later on. It couldn't be better than that! Teresa, sprawled on the couch, let go a cry of joy.

She got a grip on herself and looked around. There were herbs invading the studio apartment, but it was starting to get cold and they would die on the balcony. Maybe she should build a little greenhouse and put them back out. Otherwise going around the house would soon become impossible.

Teresa stood up and went to the bathroom. She took off her pearl earrings, a gift from her mother. They had belonged to her grandmother, but mother Letizia had decided to leave them to her rather than to Mary, and to her that had been a clear sign of acceptance of her way of being, a recognition and an incentive for her femininity. She kept them carefully, those little jewels were precious, one of the few keepsakes of the person she had loved more than everyone else.

Then she looked in the mirror. That dull complexion must be brightened with a little blush. Maybe she would hit the perfumery, tomorrow. She also needed a nice lipstick.

Manuela no longer wanted to have anything to do with her and her cause against her family. Obviously. Understandable, of course. Never mind, sooner or later she would find another lawyer. It was just too bad that she would have to tell and relive everything again. Anyway, now it mattered much less to her. Sure, she wanted justice, she still had not given up the idea. But the question now was less urgent and less of a priority. After all she had already won the main battle. She had found love; there was a guy who wanted to look at the future with her and that considered her the woman she had always felt to be. Who thus saw her the same way she saw herself. So, maybe, the battle had already been won, and the war was over.

80.

Turin, Manuela

"Wait for me outside the office, I'll pick you up and we go to court," Nadia, the owner of the law firm where she worked, had told her.

And so she had done. Nadia Fortuna, a beautiful forty-five years old divorcee, blond, toned and lamp-tanned; a mastiff in court, she could boast a lot of victories, especially in millionaire divorces, in which she enjoyed to literally tear genitals off husbands, whom she usually turned into meatballs. The tremendous lawyer had picked up her collaborator at the office gates and drove off, tires screeching on the blacktop, with her sport convertible, with the top open although it was almost December.

Nadia drove with a vengeance, surpassing whenever possible, ignoring red lights. That day she was even worse, because she was a bit late. Manuela stood silent, merged to the passenger seat. Her boss, instead, was happy and in the mood to chitchat. She was waiting for the pronouncement of a victory foretold. And indeed it was.

They left the Court of Turin at lunchtime and Nadia was loaded like a spring.

"Would you like to dine out?" she asked her employee. Of course refusing was out of question.

They stopped at Brek in Piazza Solferino and both had a salad and a steak. Manuela thought that she had more in common with Nadia than she had ever supposed. Diet in the first place. A bleak story with the lawyer Paolo De Francisci, a young rampant man in search of a career boost. And now a divorce as well, among other things.

The owner of the firm was really talkative. And hungry too. So she also went to get two milkshakes. And it was there that, between a laugh and another, between a chat and the other, Nadia, with her clear bright eyes framed by small crow's feet, sucking the drink through a straw, said almost casually, "Why do I see you a bit under par lately? I don't know, you seem a bit flat, unmotivated."

Manuela wondered whether it was so obvious. Whether her two colleagues had blurted something around, or Nadia's intuition was so strong. Both things were possible. Or half and half. Whatever it was, she could no longer restrain herself. The relaxed atmosphere that had born with her boss that day made her explode. Suddenly she realized she had burst into sobs. And a few minutes later she had confessed to her employer her frustration, telling her that Giovanni had not come back to her, in spite of the good start. And that he preferred to her none other than a former transsexual.

"What can such a person have that I do not? Yet they say, sometimes men go with trans... But why? Why? She can't even give him a child. And what sexual satisfaction might...? Oh my God, that sucks, it horrifies me even thinking about it."

Nadia let her talk, watching her with eyes shining and a kind of wry smile painted on her face. Then, when Manuela had vented for good, she offered her a Kleenex and asked, "Listen... you told me he proposed a consensual separation months ago, didn't you? At what point are you with it?"

Manuela explained. Nadia's eyes became even more shiny if possible.

"Well," she said, putting herself more at ease on the small armchair she was sitting on and sucking another sip of milkshake through the straw. "You can still do something. What if we give your husband a rough time? Let me think of something and you'll see we make him lose everything."

In the past, Manuela had believed that she could become friend with Nadia. Later she had realized that was not possible. She was too free a spirit, caring too much about turnover to feel genuine sympathy to anyone. Although, over the years, Manuela and Nadia had found a balance at work, Manuela had stopped thinking of a relationship that went beyond the office and the court. Nadia was able to become terribly envious of people, especially sentimentally fulfilled women, and to make such envy weigh on them at any occasion. When Manuela got engaged and then married, Nadia had not wasted a single occasion to trouble her life. But now that she had split from her husband, now that she was really unhappy, she embodied the ideal person for whom Nadia felt some kind of empathy. So, even now, that offer did not move Manuela. She knew that her employer was just looking for another man (Giovanni in this case) to tear to shreds in order to vent her lust for revenge towards males. However, Manuela, after pushing back her tears, had to admit to herself that at the time Nadia and she were united by the same goal, the same intention. Thus she got a grip on herself, and replied with a proud look, "Why not? Thank you, Nadia. Thank you for this opportunity."

81.

Los Angeles, Mac

After renting another car without obscene writings on, Mac had been wandering for weeks among the immense arid and deserted streets of the southern states of the USA. He had spent days and days trying to get rid of the pain inside him, and he had done that by traveling, milling miles and miles in the desert, dazing himself by listening to loud music. He did not want any contact with the outside world.

One day at a motorway restaurant he had purchased a newspaper and found in it several articles singing his praises, for his commitment to the cause against death penalty, for all he had done, as useless as it had been, to save the life of that sentenced man. The press was completely on his side. "Invasion" was nowhere to be seen. His popularity was skyrocketing. Forget the social commitment of Cillian Murphy, object of his last bout of envy before his latest adventure. The world was cheering him and no one knew where he had ended up in the meantime.

Mac crumpled the newspaper. Of all that fame, all that consensus, at that time, strange to say, he could not care less. He had not been able to save that man, thus he believed that there was no reason to gloat.

When Connie, a few days later, found him on the doorstep, dirty, badly dressed and with an unkempt beard, then and there she was surprised and did not know what to say. He spoke instead, "Now I'm ready," he said. "For you, for us, for everything. I needed this experience to grow up. Forgive me. I behaved horribly and I was unjust toward you. I was selfish and arrogant. I gave import to things that had it only relatively."

Connie threw her arms around his neck.

"Oh, Mac, I did not know where you were, I had no idea what you were doing, I feared that you had started drinking again..."

"No, no, I haven't even touched a drop of alcohol, I swear. I was alone with myself. But now I want to come home, if you still want me. I promise you that..."

"Swear that you'll never make me worry so much again!"

"I swear. And I want to do that movie. The one about the priest assisting prisoners. You were right, completely. It's a great production. And I feel it's right for me. It's just my thing."

"Okay, great!"

"And I have to start shooting Iago's thriller. It's time."

"Okay," Connie was starting to get excited. "Why don't you come in now? I was boiling some vegetables. You too were right... With all that fried food I could damage my health."

Mac smiled, snatched his suitcase, took Connie's hand and closed the door behind him.

82.

London, Futura and Patrick

After a few weeks Emma Louise was part of the family. Everybody felt like she had always been there. It was difficult to imagine that there had been a time when she did not exist.

Despite Futura's anxiety, Marina was fine with her all in all. Mostly she ignored her little sister, sometimes she was excited by her, and sporadically she showed jealousy, behaving so to attract attention, but all in all she seemed to have digested the idea of co-owned parents. At the very least, she did not seem inclined to set fire to the cradle at any moment. Her mother patiently explained that at that moment the baby was not able to do anything, except crying, eating and sleeping, and carrying out her physiological needs, but little by little she would learn how to do everything and then who knew how nice it would be playing with her. Marina listened and nodded, without really understanding.

At the same time Futura also realized that her fears of not being able to manage two daughters, very different in age and temperament, were unfounded. Her daughters showed strong personalities, but not for this she loved any of them more than the other.

One day, unexpectedly, one last letter from Luis, that had got lost in the dungeons of post offices, came. It had a weird effect, it seemed somehow surreal, a kind of communication from heaven.

Futura and Patrick considered that the passing of their friend had not changed anything in their daily lives, yet his absence had left a great emptiness. And if they felt like that, who knew how poor Ted must feel in comparison. They called him regularly and punctually found him in pieces. Who knew if and when he would recover.

In his "posthumous" letter, Luis merely said goodbye, thanked them for everything, kissed the girls, both of them, since at that point, "the second should have been born too." He asked them to pray for him, for his soul, and recommended them to stay in touch with Ted, because he was afraid for him, for his health. He was right. Then he said they should feel happy, "consistently with the situation," and hugged them tight. Finally he wrote, "Have faith because even from evil the Lord will make good arise."

After reading those pages, neither Patrick nor Futura managed to hold back the tears. They were so happy for their just renewed family, but what had happened to their friend had a considerable weight and could not be wiped out.

One evening, having put both girls to bed – for once the schedules of both had happened to be the same – the two found themselves alone in the living room and started to talk. Since their second child was born, they had not yet had time for a little intimacy, for a private conversation.

And it was nice to discover that despite the commitments and fatigue, despite the marks left by recent events, their harmony had not changed, they were still as in tune as the first day.

"You know what I think?" Patrick said, at some point, stirring the honey in the tea that Futura, squatting on the couch next to him, had made for both. "Before this story began, before the misunderstanding with Arlene and Allison, before Luis death, I thought our life had become perfect, that it could not be better. I believed that we had achieved every goal; a house, jobs and two daughters. Instead what happened these weeks was a great lesson in humility. We have not accomplished all we could, quite the contrary. We are just at the beginning. A daunting task awaits us now. We have two children to bring up. Marina and Emma, growing up, will definitely make mistakes like everyone else. Our duty is to help them face them with maturity, to use their heads, and to accept the consequences of their actions."

"Yeah," Futura agreed, with dreamy eyes, sipping from her cup. "And how do you think we can? What's the plan?" she added, throwing her husband a subtly ironic look.

"I have no idea," Patrick smiled, candid. "'When I had no children I had a lot of theories on education, now I have a lot of children and no theory.' That's what they say, isn't it?"

She smiled too.

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," she said.

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained?"

"Yes. That's what you told me after you proposed me to live together. I had put my hands forward, even though I was thrilled and flattered, stressing that it was a risk. But you answered me that way. 'Nothing ventured, nothing gained.'"

"I didn't remember."

"Neither did I. But the night before Emma's birth I dreamed of that moment, in every detail. The two of us in the car after the jazz concert, you telling me that you want to go to London, my fears... I don't know why. I relived everything. And indeed, by venturing we gained a lot. We achieved important goals, come on. Now we'll try to go on along this path. We'll keep venturing!"

"Let's hope we can."

"Anyway, I have a suggestion about the starting point."

"That is?" he asked, surprised.

"The two of us, we stick together. And love each other very much," she suggested, taking her husband's head in her hands and starting to kiss him.

"I would say that I agree," Patrick said, between one kiss and the next, his face lighting up with excitement.

Then he reciprocated the gesture, took her hand and led her to the bedroom.

Notes and thanking from the author

The facts narrated and the characters described in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons and events is purely coincidental. The places, where named and described, on the other hand are real, except for the farm in Cristini.

The actor Cillian Murphy really exists and he is absolutely one of my favorites.

Luis Crawford instead never existed and his court case has not been inspired by any specific event.

However, from 2002 to 2010 I had the good fortune and honor to become a pen pal of Martin "Eddie" Grossman. Eddie's name was provided to me by the reference person in the Community of Sant'Egidio, which has always fought against death penalty.

http://nodeathpenalty.santegidio.org/index.aspx

Eddie was a prisoner on death row in Florida, and on February 16th, 2010 he was killed. I cannot write "executed" because, from my point of view, this has nothing to do with death penalty. This book is dedicated to him.

However, my long correspondence with this man, started lightly eleven years ago, deeply enriched me personally and rooted me in the belief that prisoners are not "monsters" (at least, not necessarily) but people, often alone, yearning for a human touch and some normality, and that the application of the death penalty, which could be discussed as a concept in itself, is made according with at least disputable criteria.

Currently I am in contact with two other convicts, who, maybe by chance, are black. I do not want to write their names because their judicial process is not yet concluded.

My three pen pals (Eddie and the current two) are very different from one another, but all equally kind and motivated to live.

All the things I wrote about the issue (racism, living conditions in the prisons, even the times at which meals are served and the execution of innocent people) is real and documented.

The letter Mac receives from the Governor of Alabama has been formulated along the lines of the one I received from the Governor of Florida after writing to ask for the grace for Eddie.

The cited case of Angel Diaz is real.

I thank the Correctional Department of Atmore (Alabama) in the person of Stephanie Hust for the information regarding the access to the prison by visitors.

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# THE AUTHOR

Elena Genero Santoro was born in Turin in 1975, where she currently lives with her husband and children.

She work in the automotive industry and is responsible for the compliance of the product with the European standards about the environment.

She has been writing since she was fourteen years old to have fun, entertain others and for her personal commitment to denounce things she consider injustice.   
A theme that is particularly close to her heart is the violence against women.

Her first novel, "Because I'm in love", was published by Montag in April 2013.

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