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that, and I was shocked to find an editorial by Pierangelo, which isn’t really fair, given that it is his job. Still, it was strange to see myself written about as part of a phenomenon, an example of the breakdown of Italian society, and to know that my lover’s hands had typed the words. At least he didn’t refer to it as ‘ L’Assassinio della Luna Miele ,’ the Honeymoon Killing, like most of the other papers did.
    I think about this as I get down on my knees, pull the manila envelope from under the jeans in the bottom drawer of my dresser, and let the articles I’ve copied slither out onto the cold marble floor. The sheets rustle and whisper. I shuffle them around, put them in an order of my own, and think some day maybe I’ll look up the other two women Karel Indrizzio kissed, just to make my collection complete.
    The idea has a certain appeal, but I do realize that, like picking scabs, this little fixation is not particularly socially acceptable. I’m not even sure, exactly, why I do it any more.
    It’s a sort of crutch, I suppose, and I will give it up when I’m ready. In the meantime, however, I think it best to keep the manila envelope and its contents to myself. It’s private. My harmless little secret. Perhaps the only one about me that even Pierangelo doesn’t know.

Chapter Three
    P IERANGELO CALLS EARLY the next morning to say he will be on the evening express from Rome. I offer to meet him and he laughs, but he doesn’t tell me not to. This is one of the things I love about Piero, he understands tiny extravagances. A glass of wine in bed. A single flower. Meetings at train stations.
    He has been in Rome for the last week because, even though he is now an editor, he still likes to do the occasional story, and the paper’s upcoming feature on Florence’s own pet cardinal, Massimo D’Erreti, is too important to be handed over to anyone else. D’Erreti is rumoured to be close to the Pope, and although St Peter’s is hardly Pierangelo’s natural stomping ground—he is at best agnostic and definitely a liberal ‘small c’ Communist—he covers the cardinal himself because he likes the challenge. D’Erreti is right-wing enough to have acquired the nickname Savonarola, and I think fair and balanced coverage requires every ounce of Pierangelo’s professionalism. As a result, it’s anyone’s guess whether he’ll come back from Rome in a fit of depression at the state of the nation, a black temper at the state of the church, or on an exhausted and slightly euphoric high, the kind runners get when they’ve just completed a marathon.
    The six o’clock bells are ringing as I come into the station. People swirl around me, and finally I spot Piero halfway down the platform. He pauses to let a young woman pushing a baby stroller pass. To everyone else he’s just one more tired businessman getting off the express from Rome, dark hair tousled, coat thrown over his shoulders, briefcase gripped in one hand and suit bag in the other. But not to me. To me he’s the only person in this crowd. Which is precisely why I love meeting him in stations, or airports, or as he walks across a piazza or down a sidewalk; because in those few unconscious seconds, I own him entirely and don’t have to share him with anyone, even himself.
    On the way back to his apartment, we shop. Veal, vitello , already pounded wafer thin. Fresh asparagus. Tiny artichokes so young their outer leaves are soft and devoid of prickles so you eat them whole. A bottle of Brunello. But for all that, dinner has to wait. A week is a lifetime, and the dips and contours of another human body might somehow be forgotten. In time perhaps this desire to consume each other will wear down like a tired clock, but not now and lying on the faintly rough linen of his sheets I let Pierangelo read my scars. He walks his fingers across the angry red lines