She wanted to see me. Soon.

I told her she could come that very day, at eight in the evening, when the office closed. That way we’d be able to talk more calmly.

She arrived almost half an hour late, and this amazed me. It didn’t fit with the image I’d formed of her.

When I heard the bell ring I was already beginning to think of leaving.

I crossed the empty offices, opened the door and saw her. In the middle of the unlit landing.

She came in, dragging a big box. It contained the books and a few other belongings of Abdou, including an envelope with several dozen photographs.

I told her we could go through and talk in my room, but she shook her head. She was in a hurry. She remained where she was, one step inside the door, opened her bag and took out a roll of banknotes similar to the one she produced the first time she came to the office.

She held out the money and, without looking me in the face, began talking quickly. This time her accent was very noticeable. As strong as a smell.

She had to leave. She had to return to Aswan. She was forced, she was forced – she said – to return to Egypt.

I asked when and why, and her explanation became confused. Broken at times by words I didn’t understand.

She had taken her final exams more than a week before. In theory she should have gone straight back, and in fact all the other scholarship holders had already left.

She had stayed on, asking for an extension of the grant, claiming that she had to do further work on some subjects. The extension had been refused and yesterday she had had a fax from her country ordering her to return. If she didn’t do so, and at once, she would lose her position at the Ministry of Agriculture.

She had no choice, she said. Even if she stayed she could do nothing to help Abdou. Without money or a job.

Without anywhere to live, since they had already told her to vacate her room at the annexe as soon as possible.

She would go back to Nubia and try to obtain temporary leave. She would do everything she could to come back to Italy.

She had collected all the money she could to pay for Abdou’s defence, meaning me. It came to nearly three million. I must do all I could, all I could to help him.

No, Abdou didn’t know yet. She would tell him tomorrow, at visiting time.

However – she repeated, too quickly and without looking at me – she’d do everything she could to come back to Italy. Soon.

We both knew it wasn’t true.

Curse it, I thought. Curse it, curse it, curse it.

I had an urge to insult her for leaving me alone with all the responsibility.

I didn’t want that responsibility.

I had an urge to insult her because I saw myself in her unexpected mediocrity, in her cowardice. I recognized myself with unbearable clarity.

There passed through my mind the time when Sara had talked about the possibility of having a baby. It was one October afternoon and I said that I didn’t think the right moment had yet come. She looked at me and nodded without saying anything. She never mentioned it again.

I did not insult Abajaje. I listened to her justifications without saying a word.

When she had finished, she backed away, as if afraid of turning her back on me.

I was left standing near the door, with the cardboard box containing Abdou’s things, holding the roll of banknotes. Then I picked up the telephone on my secretary’s desk and without really thinking rang Sara’s number, which had been my number.

It rang five times, then someone answered.

The voice was nasal, fairly young-sounding.

“Yes?” The tone was that of a man who feels at home. Maybe he’s just back from work, and when the telephone rang he was loosening his tie, and now while he’s answering he’s taking off his jacket and tossing it onto a sofa.

For some unknown reason I didn’t hang up.

“Is Stefania in?”

“No, there’s no one here called Stefania. You’ve got the wrong number.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Could you please tell me what number I’ve rung?”

He told me and I even wrote it down. To be certain I’d heard right.

I looked for a long time at that piece of paper, my brain circling round and round a nasal voice, faceless, on the telephone in my own home.