Does she do this often? Does she walk the streets, when her husband goes away, looking for someone like me? Everyone in Venice has their weakness and their vice. Perhaps not only in Venice. Does she invite them to supper and hold them with her eyes and explain, a little sadly, that she can’t make love? Perhaps this is her passion. Passion out of passion’s obstacles. And me? Every game threatens a wild card. The unpredictable, the out of control. Even with a steady hand and a crystal ball we couldn’t rule the world the way we wanted it. There are storms at sea and there are other storms inland. Only the convent windows look serenely out on both.
I went back to her house and banged on the door. She opened it a little she looked surprised.
‘I’m a woman,’ I said, lifting up my shirt and risking the catarrh.
She smiled. ‘I know.’
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