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don’t recall, for example, ever having touched her or hugged her, nor do I recall her smell. People have lots of sensory memories, comforting, warm memories to return to, but not me: I easily erase whatever isn’t visual. I can call to mind only a few fragments about Teresa, like the way she cut up the potatoes she fried, in wedges, without peeling them first. I can also remember her stockings, opaque brownish hose whose thickness did not vary from one season to another. But the clearest episode concerning her, the one that displaced the others, goes back to the last time I saw her. By then I was in high school, and my mother decided that we had to give up the afternoon to go and call on my nanny. We went to see her at her row-house flat that I had visited many years earlier and of which I had no distinct recollection. It now seemed shabby, vaguely seedy to me. Teresina shared the four rooms with her son’s family and spent her days in an armchair from which she kept an eye on her hyperactive granddaughter, who cavorted around and sometimes jumped on her, like a macaque.So my parents had chosen someone poor to look after me: I don’t know why, but at that moment the revelation left me indignant. After exchanging pleasantries, we sat for a while, listening to her rasping breath. When we were about to leave, Teresina drew a bill out of her wallet, as if adhering to an old automatic reflex, and insisted that I take it. I was appalled, but, correctly interpreting my mother’s look, I accepted it.
    I wonder what train of memories Emanuele will have of Mrs. A. when he is grown. There will be a lot fewer of them than I imagine, most likely. In any case, I mull it over, kicking off the covers for the umpteenth time and finally settling on a compromise (one leg in and the other out); I’m certainly not going to suggest he see her. When a relationship is severed, it’s best if it’s severed cleanly and permanently.
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    Nora attributes the return of my insomnia to my work and only that. My contract with the university expires in a little over a year, and as of now there’s been no talk of renewing it. When I inquired, asking mysupervisor about the position that the department has been promising to offer for years, he spread his arms. “What can I tell you? We’re waiting for one of the old ones to die. But those guys are hardy.”
    He did not add anything more, nor was he sensibly tempted, being sixty-six himself, to include himself in the “hardy” group. He doesn’t care to dwell too much on the matter of my professional advancement; he finds it more pleasurable to ramble on about departmental intrigues and from there shift to politics in general. Sometimes he goes on like that until nine or ten o’clock at night, when the corridors empty out and the guards lock the doors, except for one side door that opens with a magnetic key card (and if by chance you’ve forgotten it, you’re in big trouble). For the most part, I nod, scribbling out a page of calculations. I’m his personal audience, and I have no choice. I don’t think he’s happy for us to spend so many hours together either—he always goes away irritated—but he likes to exercise the authority he has over me, and sequestering me in his office is still better than what’s waiting for him at home. He’s never explained why, but when talking about marriage he becomes morecaustic than usual. When I told him that I was getting married, his comment was nearly as callous as what Nora’s father said to her: “The important thing is to keep separate accounts, because love is love, but money is money.” What my supervisor told me was, “It’s still a few months off. You have time to reconsider.” He came to the reception alone, stationed himself near the buffet table to make sure he didn’t miss any goodies and was among the last to leave, somewhat tipsy. I