The morticians had undeniably done an excellent job…. I saw the same face that had so attracted me from a photograph, framed by delicate briar roses, reposing on a white silk cushion. But it was younger, more ethereal, almost withdrawn from reality. His eyes were closed and I noticed for the first time the long eyelashes, casting shadows on the hollowed cheeks. I wasn’t able to tell if they were real or lengthened with mascara. The raven hair was artistically brushed back to capitalize on the natural wave and high forehead. They had mercifully spared the overly large nose…he had been freshly shaved and a discreet rouge had been applied to the cheeks in an effect I had used as a teen-ager to make them appear fuller. The already full lips had been obviously brightened, the only exaggerated part of the make-up. If it had not been for those pathetic, sensual lips in the otherwise remote, spiritualized face, I could have really believed that he was only peacefully sleeping and dreaming dreams of angels. It would have been beautiful, because he was beautiful, and serene, because he was serene, and I could have been happy for an instant because he seemed happy, or at least so far from grief, humiliation, and fear. But those blood-red lips spoiled everything. They garishly brought back the cruelty, the horror. They made me see ugly, degrading pictures I wanted to blot out…

My mind had been working furiously…. I am very easily hurt. I can be devastated, but once the blow is registered, I know how to react. I am quick to glue back the pieces and go on from there. My life is proof of that. And with my furious jealousy acknowledged, I was ready to do something about it. Years of analyzing other people’s feelings have left me few illusions as to my own. Obviously, I hated this mysterious Virginia. Asking myself what I desired at the moment, the answer was uncompromising: to kill her! And just as promptly came the realization that this was in my power to do. All it would take would be some daring and luck. Fortuitous coincidences of physique and nomenclature had taken care of that. Of course, I realized this murder would only be a moral one, but by now I had grown accustomed to handling this entire episode in the spiritual dimension. And so I decided to risk it…

I was about to leave, satisfied with my trophies, when the cassettes caught my eye. As I am paid to know, a person’s taste in music is often a dead giveaway-away as to his personality… I selected a random one…. And pushed the on button. There was a slightly scratchy noise…. I waited, my back turned to the tape recorder.
“Hello, Virginia,” someone said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
I swung around. I was sure this was Gerald’s voice.
“Why don’t you sit down? That’s right, over there… like you always do…. I’m so glad you came by today; I really needed to talk to you.”
Mechanically, I obeyed. I wondered if my body belonged to me or to that unknown Virginia…

I turned into the beige living room and groped for the light switch. I was surprised to notice that I had left the brown double curtains pulled back. All the lights of D.C. shone like a bejeweled necklace carelessly thrown onto the city. And slowly, as my fingernails scratched over the smooth plasticized wall, a distinct realization began to creep into me. I was not alone in the dark room. Yes, right there on the hard sofa was a shadow that shouldn’t have been there. Sheer panic seized me. I was back again in the dark alley… I heard the pounding of footsteps…. I was running, the taste of blood in my mouth… I stumbled, fell, hangs were tearing at my clothes, at my soul — I switched on the light…

A child! A child I could have never give. Him! A child, my child, that she had in her body. That child that I had begged Gerald to leave me at least before going. That child, in spite of my barrenness, he had succeeded in bequeathing me. I wanted to touch it, to grab it, to hold it close. This ugly girl’s body was the only thing between me and my rightful child, Gerald”s child. I wanted to smash Carolina and see what was inside. It it was too early yet. She had to be kept until the child was born. And of course, there was still the problem of getting that child afterwards. Even in my frenzy, I realized that neither Gerald not I had the slightest right to that all-important piece of flesh. Gerald, because he was dead; I, because I was an absolute nobody to it.

I still love Alle’ and Marielle. I always shall. I think I am still in love with them. I suppose I always will be. They have become part of me as I wanted to become part of them…

The Della Tarame villa. I am not superstitious by nature. Yet every time I would come home on vacation and would have to pass the Della Tarame estate, I would studiously avert my eyes from the stone wall and my pace would undeniably quicken. Sometimes, remembering accusations that I was effeminate, I would make it a point of honor to raise my head just as I walked by the entrance gate…

Alle’. There was something so full of pathos about him. So fragile. So earnest. So pure. He was built like his mother, tall for his age and slim. He did not look very strong…

I met Marielle on a crisp November morning. It was unusually warm in Florence that day. There was a cool, incredibly bright sun that spattered everything with yellow spots – the park, the green branches, the sidewalk the church of San Marco, and her as she walked. I liked the way she walked. That easy, foreign gait. I had liked her long brown hair that was not styled. It was waving at me behind her as she walked. She laughed. I thought it was a very frank laugh, as I wished I could laugh. I decided to talk to her. I do not think I desired her yet…

“Now I have something to tell you, Allé. You may not be able to handle it right now, but think about it and we’ll discuss it later. I’ve just found out myself, and I’ve never been good at keeping things back. I love you, Allé. I will love you in any way you choose; as a friend, or a wife, or a lover, or a counselor, or a nurse, or none of the above if you have absolutely no use for me. In whatever way, I will love you. Forever…”

Since the beginning of history, never was a human being in such a lover’s quandary as I. The one who had stolen my beloved was himself loved by me. Alle’ was a traitor. My rival…. How dare he talk like this about my Marielle! About my little green apple crackling under my tooth…but he was also Alle’ the beautiful…. I wanted to touch him, to run my fingers up his side till they reached the smooth shoulders…

So, what had she meant by “it’s your fault if…?” I was to understand those words two years later with a vengeance. Snapshots. Snapshots on my desk. Snapshots in my mind. A clearing in a forest. A grassy hill. Tuscan grass. Not green as in some uncouth corners of the world but a golden, greenish beige, refined by centuries of being walked on by poets, artists, men of God…. Snapshots. A morsel of life. I have always considered photography to be akin to witchcraft. There is some distinct mystical quality about it. It opens the mind’s eye to another dimension…. A dimension in which Alle’, Marielle, Romano and Caroline are eternally frolicking in the grass as the hill slopes down…God, how young they were! God, how unfair it was! But is there such a thing as fairness? Is there such a thing as God? Snapshots. And here is the one that hurts so much. The one that Romano snapped that brisk summer morning. Alle’, me, and Marielle, all with our arms around each other’s waists, all smiling in our own special way. Unknowingly, that child summarized our entire lives on that photograph…. Alle’ the giving, me the desiring, Marielle the faithful…our last summer together in the Tuscany hills. We were three people who loved each other… that was our only crime…. We lived and loved through each other…. That was all…

And now that oval sapphire sparkled at the bottom of Marielle’s décolleté, exactly at the fault between the two greats and Alle’ rotted in the Della Tarame camposanto. The red light came on and I automatically stopped the Mercedes. The windshield wipers swept smoothly over the glass pane, without a sound. Suddenly, I tightened my grip on the wheel. Alle’ – Alle’ was here. There – his face – pressed against his glass, looking at me. And the raindrops seemed to flow gently over his transparent glass skin. Those tears he had never cried as he lay dying. Now he was looking at me as he had looked at me then, what had that particular look meant? The light changed to green, I drove off into the darkness and Alle’s transparent face disappeared. Only the raindrop tears were left.

On May 20, 2025, I had the honor of launching my new novel, “Becoming Virginia,” at a wonderful luncheon hosted by the ACE Health Foundation, at the historic DACOR-Bacon House in Washington, DC. This event not only celebrated my journey as a novelist but also emphasized the importance of women pursuing their passions and second acts in life. I am grateful to Ms. Pooja Chandra Pama and ACE Health Foundation For their exceptional support in making this gathering possible. I invite you to experience the reading of my novel through the video linked here as we continue to inspire and uplift one another in our creative endeavors.