When I reach the Audace, there is a blustery chilling wind so that I can no longer feel my face. So there, I said to myself, my home was once made of wind and sea. And the seagulls? Their sharp calls are lost in the piercing blasts of wind like the sheer desperation of babies sobbing and women without hope. There is something tragic about this city to see it from this vantage point. I light a cigarette with effort and the wind slashes and scatters the ashes with each breath. It would be extraordinarily beautiful for her to be here next to me, to see what I see, to feel the cold air in her hair, like the first time. I have never seen Trieste, she said to me exuberantly with her ferocious and inexplicable beauty, the skyline of the city against a limpid sky reflected in her eyes as a momentary and improvised flame of brightness, and, at that moment, I thought perhaps I had never truly seen it, not yet. Then, the city had enveloped us in her benevolent and breezy cape of small streets, stone and white facades, and it seemed we fled through the city, insensitive to our laughter stolen by the wind, and when the sea suddenly appeared it took our breath away, unexpected and without measure, as if we had never seen it, never before that moment. At the extreme point of the pier it seemed as if we were surrounded by an intact space that awaited a simple gesture or perhaps only to become a hint of an idea, a canvas upon which one can draw something that has no name and no form, at least not yet. And the immeasurable mass of water that hit against and rocked the piles of the pier, the same water that moves against the line of the horizon until it is confused and fused with the sky, was not a threat but seemed to recall calm and clear brilliance, like an occasion, a possibility. It seems to me that it is as I would like it always to be, she said. Just this. At that moment I understood that I would no longer be myself and neither would she.