I’VE TRIED to tell the truth in this account of my life. There must be inaccuracies of dates, places, and what people did or failed to do; that’s inevitable in a narration of what happened so many years before. But I have told the truth as far as I know it—except for one sentence a page back. The truth, which I know very well but avoided saying, was that I hadn’t made love to my wife in three years—not only over those three days in Spoleto. We weren’t intimate that way through the last years of her life. In a Western civilization, with a “Western” woman, I was making the grand experiment of the Oriental male, to separate love and sex. In every other essential, I was faithful to Molly; I’d devoted my energies without reserve to supporting and, when she needed it, protecting her. I was her husband truly, and my thoughts and my energies were always with her. Friendship, at the end, was our truest bond. Was this enough? For her? For me? Could it be? Not by American standards. And perhaps not in fact.