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I can't stand it. But I know you have to put up with everything in life. I tell you, not to complain, nor to be a nuisance. But only because I love you so much. I want you to be happy and don't think about me and marry the best man in the world. But a major operation would be needed to cure me of loving you."

You're not logical, Papa, I told him. You tell me not to think about you and you send me a letter a day. If you hadn't written that book. I would have fewer problems.

"...So, Adriana de mi alma y de mi corason, nuestra senorita de no hay* Rimedio, the best and the most loved, fresh as a young pine in the snow, beautiful as the first morning sun, strong as a good foal, take care of yourself because you deserve it."

Take care of yourself, Papa. I wonder if the seagull has come to tell you that "I feel for you as always?" But I am not like you, straight like a compass pointing north, I am - and I smiled remembering - I am unbalanced like our Tower, more than the Tower of Pisa, and I saw the mangoes and the aguacate and the frangipani shrub that with the branches it embraced at the beginning of the stair railing. And the bottle that is "where only we know."

But how much do we know, Papa? "All people are confused and that's as normal as a battle." you said. I don't know anything anymore. The more I go on, the less I know, like Socrates.

If there wasn't that book, he'd be here and we could discuss it together, I thought and kicked the glue tube rolling on the floor. I noticed that beyond the glue on the floor there was only a box of pencils and a silk scarf, not much this time. I was making progress, I thought, remembering the day I had found the most varied objects on the floor of my room. La Giglia, declaring herself innocent, took the opportunity to say that if she found fewer objects on the furniture she would take less time to dust.

*Said in Spanish: of my soul and of my heart, our lady of the Rimedio...