“No, I remember more. I ... I didn’t know if you’d want to talk about that; being married and....”
She was surprised. “But I knew you first, after all. That counts for something and then I remembered, too. It hasn’t been so long.”
“Several years.”
“It doesn’t seem that long to me. You remember those nights at our place in Fiesole? We used to go out and sit on the ledge and look at the lights of the city.” They both looked out the window then, looked at the glacier-bright squares of light.
“It was very pretty.”
“You Anglo-Saxon!” She laughed at him, not maliciously but gaily. “You say it’s pretty. You say it’s nice. It was beautiful and you know it. That was a beautiful time.”
He felt her warmth suddenly, began to remember her warmth, began to remember much that he had forgotten. “Yes,” said he, warmed by her, “those nights were beautiful.”
“Good, I wanted to hear you say that. I wanted you to say,” her voice became so low that he could barely hear her, “I wanted you to say much more but I think you’ve forgotten.” She looked out at the towers of the city, at the glittering webs of light. She was embarrassed now and he was not. No, she was not embarrassed; he realized that with a sudden vision; she was sad and he didn’t want her to be sad.
“You know ... I can say more. I didn’t think you wanted to hear it. That was so long ago. You’re married and....”
She turned around and faced him, her face alive and gay; her moods changed so quickly, he remembered: he had always been baffled by her changes. “You got interested in someone else. I know what you soldiers are like. Italians are just the same in Italy.”