When she came to our house and called me "professor."
Mary Mount. It feels like yesterday. She'd pick up me and Mattia in her white Opel, and we'd talk about everything under the sun during those hot Roman summers—one of the happiest periods of my life.
The way she was with the Fede e Luce young people. Calm and smiling, steady and tender. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The way she nibbled her fingernails when she was thinking. I could draw it. She'd curl her fingers and rub her nails with her thumb.
All those snacks in the little Ombre e Luci office—pizza and orange juice.
Her beautiful, strange great necklaces. The oatmeal she'd bring me. I didn't much care for it, if I'm honest, but in cold milk in the morning it had an exotic taste that intrigued me—a taste I seem to hear now.
Her style. Those vivid, original clothes, so rare in their elegance.
Her perfume. I smell it every time I walk into her house, and I hope it stays there forever.
Her Italian—Nicole's Italian, so beautiful I'll never forget it. When she was angry she'd switch to French, but the curse words always came out in Italian. Her love-hate affair with Italy, with that boisterous, disruptive Italy she half criticized and half envied.
The endless conversations with my mother—her in French, Mariangela in Italian. To my child's eyes it was always startling. How on earth did they understand each other?
Her English lessons. Whatever English I know, I owe some of it to her. The calm she gave me, the way she always made me feel at ease.
The respect she always showed me and the attention she paid to what I said, even when I was eight years old with short pants and scraped knees.
Talking about films. Sometimes we agreed, sometimes we didn't. But she always had insight and that fascinating gaze.
The directness that defined her. I only understood it as I grew older, but it's a quality I deeply admire. It means being clear, straight to the point, almost blunt. That's the beauty of simplicity. No beating around the bush. It was as if she were telling me: if you want something, say it plainly and don't waste time on empty formalities. Her objectivity about the way the world works. An intellectual honesty I've always admired and learned so much from.
Her discretion. Only now, as often happens, do I realize how present she was in my life. She was always there, and now I feel her absence.
Deeply.
Emanuele, 2006