And might this not be the real reason for what happened with G? If my heart belonged to someone else … Even now, there are nights when I return to that part of the city, and I feel, of course I do (fool that I am, unable to connect to my feelings unless I sit down and write like a man possessed), I feel a sweet ache; and I glance, of course I do, I glance around, and I don’t dare look any more closely or approach that figure huddling in a doorway, because it might be her, what’s left of her, destroyed like the city by the same cruel, miserable force, the same stupid meanness, the infinite blindness of man. I’m afraid of seeing you defeated, and far more afraid that you’ll recognise me and feel a surge of hope that I’ve come back to you; I wouldn’t dare insult you by throwing you some change, you, who were once whole; and nothing in the world, nothing in the world could make me return with you to that room, to the smell of freshly ironed sperm, to the bells on the doors and the staff listening to tangos by Canaro or Roberto Firpo or football matches on the radio.