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“I always said he was a strange boy,” she said.

Nico would have liked to say that being strange was one thing, damn it, but starting to act like a monkey was quite another matter, then it struck him that it wasn’t worth it, he didn’t want to talk about it anyway, he was rather tired and this whole business of Piero and the monkey was perhaps too straightforward to require much discussion.

After a few minutes, Nico’s father came into the kitchen. He was himself again: he had put on his usual jacket and tie and light-brown trousers. He had gone back to being the aloof, distinguished man Nico had always known. Nico told himself not to think about the fact that only a little while earlier he had seen him run upstairs naked.

“Hello, son.”

His father came up to Nico and they kissed each other lightly on the cheek.

“Hello, Dad.”

“Everything OK?”

“Yes, not bad. And you?”

“Pretty good. How’s work?”

“Fine, really. Just fine.”

“Great.”

Silence.

“I’m going to watch the news,” Nico’s father said.

Nico nodded, and his father left the kitchen, taking a small piece of bread with him. Nico’s mother suggested it might be nice if they all ate in the kitchen, just like in the old days, so Nico got down off the stool and laid three places on the wooden breakfast bar beside the cooker. Over dinner, they talked of this and that as they tried to get his mother’s mixture down them. His father made another attempt to show an interest in his son’s work, and Nico tried to involve him, too, in the Piero thing, but without much success.

When dinner was over, his mother put the dishes in the dishwasher and they went into the living room to see what was on TV. They all sat down on the sofa, with Nico in the middle. From time to time he turned his head slightly to look at his parents and see if they, too, felt the same kind of cheerful self-consciousness, and they looked at him briefly in return, but then turned back to the TV as if nothing had happened.

After just over half-an-hour, Nico told himself it had been quite a day, stood up and told his parents that he was going to bed. His mother looked up with an affectionate half-smile and told him his bed was ready, with clean sheets and everything.

“Just like the old days,” she said, still smiling.

Nico wondered why they were all so obsessed with the old days. He nodded pensively a couple of times, then turned and walked upstairs.

His room was indeed just as it had been, with the Moana Pozzi and Rolling Stones posters and the photo of Tom Waits on the wall, together with all the other teenage nonsense no one had had the courage to take down in all these years.

Nico started wandering around the room, moving a few ornaments and picking up a few magazines. He saw the old issue of Playboy with which he had come for the first time. He leafed through it until he found the photo of Anna Nicole Smith that had caused that miracle, and for a moment he felt like making a real leap into the old days and going to the bathroom to masturbate over his first woman. Then it occurred to him that he was too tired and disorientated even for that. He undressed and went to the bathroom to clean his teeth.

In the wardrobe, he found an old T-shirt to sleep in. He slid under the blankets and for a few seconds lay there, looking at his room, thinking of all the times he had looked at it from the same angle and how different it seemed now.

He reached out his arm towards the bedside table, picked up the telephone and tried to call his agent. Still off the hook. Maybe it was just as well, he thought: if it was on and she had answered, she might have bawled him out for calling her at this hour, and Nico didn’t really want that.

He put the phone down and dialled another number.

“Hello?”

“So, wanker, how’s it going?”

“Hi, dumbo. Fine, and you?”

It was like music, hearing a sane, normal, calm voice that didn’t change and didn’t make animal noises.

“Oh, not bad. Same old same old.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’ll tell you later. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I don’t know, no plans for the moment.”

“How about having a bite to eat?”

“Where?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How about Vinaino’s?”

“Vinaino’s, great. Shall I meet you there?”

“Fine. One o’clock?”

“One o’clock.”

“Bye, arsehole.”

“Bye, dumbo.”

Nico put down the phone and put it back on the bedside table, then had second thoughts, picked it up again and dialled another number.

The phone rang at the other end, and for a moment Nico hoped that no one would answer.

“Hello?”

“Hi, darling.”

“Hi.”

Giada sounded tired and a bit depressed, and for a moment, improbably, Nico felt a slight sense of guilt.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Quite well. And you?”

Nico stretched out a bit more in bed. “I’m not sure. Fine, I think. It’s been a long day.”

“Yes, I know. For me, too.”

Nico wondered if there was some subtext in those words, then decided he didn’t care. “We should play a game of squash.”

“Squash?”

“Yes, you know, that game where you bang a ball like crazy against a wall?”

“I know what squash is, but what’s that got to do with anything?”

“I don’t know, they say you sweat a lot.”

“Have you ever played it?”

“No.”

“So how do you know what it’s like?”

“I don’t know, it’s always struck me as one of those cool things you do in the evening to wind down. One of those stupid things actually, because when you think about it, banging a ball against a wall is a pretty strange way to wind down.”

Giada gave a half-laugh. “Silly,” she said.

It was nice to hear her say that, Nico thought. It had been a while since that had last happened.

“How’s your friend?” Giada asked.

Nico thought about it for a moment. “You have an amazing voice.”

“What?”

“You have an amazing voice.”

“Oh,” Giada said. “Have you only just realised?”

“No, I mean tonight. You have an amazing voice tonight.”

“Why, how is it usually?”

“No, usually it’s very nice, but tonight … Anyway.”

Silence. Nico felt like sighing, but decided not to.

“But what about your friend?”

“Well,” Nico said, “my friend is acting like a monkey.”

“You mean, really?”

“Yes, really. He grunts and slaps his own head just like a monkey. It’s quite impressive.”

“My God.”

“But he doesn’t seem that bad.”

Giada said nothing for a moment and Nico tried to imagine what position she was in.

“Oh, well,” Giada said.

Another silence. It was if both of them wanted to say something, but were too tired.

“Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, sure.”

“Sleep well.”

“You, too.”

MARCO WAS ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE who for some reason reach a point in their lives when they seem to realise something other people haven’t, and are constantly demonstrating the fact with a serenity they can’t conceal. After finishing school, he had tried university for a while, then had decided it wasn’t for him and had started doing all kinds of little jobs to make a living and save enough money for a plane ticket. His first destination had been South America. He had left one Thursday morning and had not returned for months.

That was how he lived: wandering from job to job, from country to country, finding what work he could and putting aside a few lire. Whenever he grew tired of it, he would start to get restless again, the way people who travel a lot tend to do. Then something had changed. Overnight, he had reappeared in town, and Nico had immediately realised that he was different from the other times. He had started working in a restaurant and after less than a year had become manager of a grocery store.