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this was the first impact with a person who had read the book.

"Renata,..? Yes, of course, Borgatti, Renata Borgatti, an old friend of Hemingway's from the twenties, excellent pianist, daughter of the tenor Borgatti, one of the great singers at the time of Tamagno, Caruso, Sjaliapin, Feodor Ivanovich Sjaliapin..."

"I see you are well informed. Are you interested in music?"

"I...? Not me, I am totally ignorant." I took another sip of wine. "Except that Renata was a very frequent guest at our house in Venice, right mom? I remember her well, Renata. Eyes with an intense expression, a deep voice, a strong personality."

Bemelmans refilled my glass. He seemed to think, then said: "All right for the name. But as characters, in your opinion who is the Venetian countess of Colonnel Cantwell?"

I took another long sip of wine. "It doesn't exist, that is, there isn't a real Venetian, Renata and the sum of various women mixed together, that's how you do it when you are inspired by novels and it's foolish to insist on always wanting to make a comparison with reality" I said and again I looked, beyond the flowers, at my mother's face on whose high smooth forehead I had stopped like a light shadow. Bemelmans also looked at my mother, fleetingly. Then he said, "I see," he lit a cigar and talked about something else.

We had become friends, me and Bemelmans. The reason I spent most of my time with Bemelmans while sailing the Liberte was called Manolito.

Manolito was a young painter with a sombre gaze and a slim, snappy body. When my mother retired to the cabin to read, I often stopped to chat with him about art and Spain. One evening, we were sitting in the crowded hall...