I thought that for Michele and me it would be different. We were young: just married, we would leave for Venice, we’d have a big room on the Grand Canal. My mother often said she’d had to fight with her parents for a long time in order to marry my father; she had decided to run away with him, if they wouldn’t let her. I couldn’t take what she said seriously—the very idea made me laugh. I imagined them meeting at night, in a coupé. She’d arrive breathless, holding up her dress with its train, and papa would be waiting for her, twisting the ends of his mustache. But in those clothes, in those gestures, I imagined them already old, familiar and irritated with one another, as they are now. It’s so hard to see the people around us as different from the figures t

I’d like so much to talk about these things with Michele. But if I try, I don’t know why, I get embarrassed and pretend to be joking. Last night I sat beside him as he was reading the paper and told him that Riccardo intends to get married soon, before going to Argentina. He said it would be a really bad idea, because a man who marries is no longer free to direct his life as he pleases, he’s ruined. Humiliated, I asked if, then, he … But he immediately interrupted me, saying that our case is an exception. So, almost teasingly, I asked if he was happy. With some annoyance he answered, “What difficult questions! Yes, of course, why shouldn’t I be? The children are good, they’re healthy. Riccardo will have a great career in Argentina, Mirella’s already working, then she’ll get married. What more could we wish for, mamma?” He smiled, patting my hand fondly, and went back to reading.hey’re compelled to represent for us.