I have never forgotten those three words; it was the last thing she said to me: Not from me. For weeks now I've been writing at a good pace, without wasting time rereading. If Lila is still alive -- I imagine as I sip my coffee and look out at the Po, bumping against the piers of the Principessa Isabella bridge -- she won't be able to resist, she'll come and poke around in my computer, she'll read, and, cantankerous old woman that she is, she'll get angry at my disobedience, she'll want to interfere, correct, add, she'll forget her craving to disappear. Then I wash the cup, go back to the desk to write, starting from that cold spring evening in Milan, more than forty years ago, in the bookstore, when the man with the thick eyeglasses spoke derisively about me and my book in front of everyone, and I replied in confusion, shaking. Until suddenly Nino Sarratore stood up and, almost unrecognizable with his unruly black beard, harshly attacked the man who had attacked me. Right then my whole self began to silently shout his name -- how long had it been since I'd seen him: four, five years -- and although I was ice-cold with tension I felt myself blushing.

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