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You once asked me, 'How come we never talk seriously?' so I searched and then I ended up taking myself seriously and we almost quarreled. But we've never really had a fight and I never have a fight with you, unless you want to, for fun. But it would be a dangerous sport."

"You're right. Let's not talk about war, not even as a joke, and let's not quarrel. Let's talk about something beautiful." 

"O.K., Black Horse: let's talk about you." 

"Stop, Papa. I'm not Beatrice and you're not Dante."

"I wouldn't mind being Dante. They say he didn't write too badly." 

"But you weren't born in Florence and your nose is too short." 

"And you have the nose of a real red man and yet I assure you that Beatrice would envy you." 

"I'd gladly give it to Beatrice. When I remember my nose, the complex comes to me: it's too big." 

"You talk nonsense from time to time, Daughter."

"Then we are even, partner." 

"Touched. To lift my moral I have to take another gin and tonic. You too, Daughter." 

"At your orders, Papa. Always at your orders." 

"You're cute when you tell a lie. But you should learn to tell it more credibly," he laughs.

Beyond the window I watch the people go by. This one, dressed in many colors and many spots, wants to make it clear that he is an artist. This other one, yellow shoes and big rings on his fingers, easy, and a rich nigger. The woman with a handkerchief on her head and baguette under her arm and a French housewife. Those who gesticulate loudly could be Spaniards or Italians...

Papa too looks over to the window. "If you take the children out of the wheelchair, every man who passes by - if he knew you and is not stupid - would stop. He would stop and ask you...