Rather than anger at the damage, I felt humiliated. I found myself reflecting on what it is like for someone to come home and find the place turned upside down by burglars. Next I thought of all the petty thieves I had defended and got off.

Lastly, it occurred to me that my brain was turning to pulp and I was becoming pathetic. So, luckily, I dropped moral speculation and made an attempt to be practical.

I called up a client of mine who had a certain reputation in criminal circles in Bari and the surrounding province. He came to the office and I told him the story, including the street-fight. I said I didn’t want to go to the police or the carabinieri, but I would if these people forced my hand. In my opinion we were even. I would pay for the damage to the car and they, whoever they were, could nurse their bruises and leave me to get on with my work in peace.

My client said I was right. He also said that they really ought to pay to repair my car and provide new tyres. I said that I’d get the car done up and I didn’t want new tyres.

It had occurred to me that neither did I want a summons for receiving stolen goods, seeing that they certainly wouldn’t have gone and bought them from an authorized dealer. But this I didn’t say.

All I wanted was for everyone to stay put and not go making trouble for anyone else. He didn’t push the point, and gave me a nod signifying respect. A different kind of respect from that usually paid to a lawyer.

He said he’d let me know within two days.

He was as good as his word. He came back to the office two days later and mentioned a name that carried weight in certain circles. That person sent word offering his apologies for what had happened. It had been an accident – two accidents in fact, thought I, but let’s not split hairs – that would not be repeated. He, however, was at my disposal should I need anything.

The story finished there.

Apart from the two million lire I had to fork out to put the car in order.

About half-past nine in the evening I had just come back from the gym and was about to thaw two chicken breasts, grill them and prepare a salad, when the bell rang.

I spent a few seconds wondering what had happened. Then it registered that it must be my own doorbell, and while on my way to answer it I realized that this must be the first time anyone had rung it since I’d been living here. I felt a pang of melancholy, then I opened the door.

At last she’d found someone in. It was the fourth time she’d tried my door but there was never any answer. Did I really live alone? She was the new tenant, on the seventh floor. She had introduced herself to all the other tenants in the building, I was the last. Her name was Margherita. Margherita, and I didn’t catch the surname.

She gave me her hand across the invisible frontier of the doorway. It was a fine, masculine hand, large and strong.

Certain women – and especially certain men – give you a strong handshake but you realize at once that it’s for show. They want to make themselves out to be decisive, no-nonsense people, but the strength is only in the hand and arm. What I mean is, it doesn’t come from inside. Some people can actually crush your hand, but it’s as if they were doing body-building.

There are others, if only a few, who when they shake your hand tell you that there’s something behind the muscles. I held Margherita’s hand for maybe a second or two more than necessary but she went on smiling.

Then I asked her awkwardly if she’d care to come in. No, thank you, she had just stopped by to introduce herself. She was actually on her way home after being out the whole day. She had a mass of things to do, what with having just moved in. When things were more organized, she’d ask me up for a cup of tea.

She had a good smell about her. A mixture of fresh air, dry and clean, a masculine, leathery smell.

“Don’t be sad,” she said as she made for the staircase.

Just like that.

When she was already out of sight I realized that I had never really looked at her. I went back inside, half closed my eyes and tried to reproduce her face in my mind. I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t sure I’d recognize her if I saw her in the street.

In the kitchen the chicken breasts had thawed in the microwave. But I no longer felt like having them simply grilled, so I got out a recipe book I kept in the kitchen but had never used.

Tasty chicken rissoles. That sounded just the job. At least, the name did. I read the recipe and was glad to see I had all the ingredients.

Before starting I opened a bottle of Salice Salentino, tasted it, and then looked for a CD to listen to while I was cooking.

White Ladder.

The syncopated rhythm of “Please Forgive Me” started and then, almost at once, came the voice of David Gray. I stayed near the speakers to listen until it got to the part of the song I liked best.

Then I went back to the kitchen and got down to work.

I boiled the chicken and minced it, along with a couple of ounces of cooked ham that had been in the fridge for some days. Then I put the meat into a bowl together with an egg, some grated Parmesan, nutmeg, salt and black pepper. I stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon before kneading it with my hands, having added some breadcrumbs. I shaped the mixture into rissoles the size of an egg, then dipped them into beaten egg to which I’d added salt and a little wine, then rolled them in breadcrumbs to which I’d added another pinch of nutmeg, and finally sizzled them in olive oil over a moderate flame.

I drained the rissoles – which smelled delicious – on kitchen paper and prepared a salad with balsamic vinegar dressing. I laid the table with a cloth, real plates, real cutlery, and before sitting down to eat I went and changed the CD.

Simon and Garfunkel. The Concert in Central Park.

I pushed “skip” until number 16 came up. “The Boxer.”

I stood and listened to it until the last verse. My favourite.

Then I turned off the CD player and went to eat.

The rissoles were excellent. So was the salad, while the wine had a bouquet and reflections danced in the glass.

I wasn’t sad that evening.