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both occasions.'
    I asked without thinking: 'What's the surprise?'
    'Come with me and I'll show you.'
    I said, cruelly: 'In any case let's celebrate only one of these two occasions today—my return home. That's the real cause for rejoicing today.'
    Did my mother notice my sarcasm? Or was she unaware of it? Certainly she said nothing. In the meantime she was walking in front of me round the walls of the villa, towards the open space at the front. I saw her walk in a deliberate fashion up to the beautiful sports car standing near mine and then stop, one hand on the bonnet, more or less in the attitude of a girl being photographed for a car manufacturer's display poster. 'You once told me,' she said, 'that you would like to possess a very fast car. At first I thought of buying you a real racing car, but they're dangerous things and so I decided on this "convertible". The dealer told me it was the very latest model, only a few weeks out of the factory. It'll do a hundred and twenty miles an hour.'
    I approached slowly, wondering how much this car that my mother wanted to give me could have cost: three million lire, four million? It was of foreign make and the coach work was sumptuous: I knew that cars of this kind are extremely expensive. My mother was now talking about the car in the same detached, scientific, curious, almost affectionate tone that she adopted when discussing the flowers in her garden. 'I like this particularly,' she said, pointing to the instrument panel which had a black background against which the various switches and polished metal controls sparkled like diamonds on black velvet in a jeweller's shop; 'I would have bought it simply for this. And then I like it also because it has the solidity of a good pair of strong shoes, handmade and specially designed for long walks. A reassuring solidity. Well, would you like to try it? We've time to take a little turn before lunch, only for a few minutes, however, because there's a dish that can't be kept waiting and the cook is very anxious that you should appreciate it, she's done it specially for you.'
    Staring absent-mindedly at the car, I murmured: 'Just as you like.'
    'Yes, do try it, especially as I have to confirm my purchase of it with the dealer.'
    I said nothing; I opened the car door and got in. My mother got in beside me and, as I started the engine and lowered the gear lever, she informed me in her usual intimate, scientific tone of voice: 'It has a convertible top. The dealer assured me that in the winter not the smallest breath of wind can get in. In any case, there's the heater. In the summer you can put the top down; it's more amusing to drive without the top.'
    'Yes, it's more amusing.'
    'D'you like the colour? I thought it was lovely, so much so that I didn't even want to see any other. The dealer told me that the metallization of the paint is an expensive process but the effect is smarter.'
    'It's much more delicate,' I said vaguely.
    'When it's tarnished, you can have it re-painted,'
    The car gave forth a very loud roar, just like a racing car; then I drove round the open space and moved off swiftly down the drive. The car was at the same time very powerful and very sensitive, as I could tell when I felt it leap forward beneath my feet at the slightest pressure on the accelerator. We went out through the iron gates, and I could not help recalling the sensation I had had a short time before when, on my way up to the villa, I had felt I was re-entering the womb that had given me birth. And now? Now I was inside that same womb and I should never leave it again.
    Outside the gates, I turned to the right and went up the Via Appia in the direction of the Castelli. The dull, sultry day had caused a dark, shifting, volatile ring of thundery-looking clouds to form thickly over Monte Cavo; all along the Via Appia the pines and cypresses, the ruins, the hedges, the fields were dim with dust and burnt up by the heat of summer. My mother went on praising the