My name is Franco. In early October 1997, I turned twenty-one and moved to Turin. I became a student. My father stopped sponsoring my races—despite the fact that, over the season, I had made it to the podium eight times. A bright future in motorsports seemed within reach… provided I could find reliable sponsors. But there were none. And then there was that unfortunate incident with my father’s car, which I had borrowed for a while.
In short, my parents decided I should dedicate the next three years to higher education. They also believed I needed what’s commonly called a school of life: to live on my own, manage a budget, and take care of daily life by myself.
They allocated enough money for a decent one-bedroom apartment in the city center—but I chose to spend it differently. I rented a room on the outskirts, and by saving that way, I secured a small reserve to keep me afloat for the time being. The room was in a new building, and my landlords—who were also my neighbors—had only moved in six months earlier, so they still knew what it felt like to be new to a place.
She is striking and beautiful. She seems flawless. From the very first moment I saw her, she became the most extraordinary woman I had ever laid eyes on—unlike anyone else in the world. Unlike any woman I had known since childhood. And no wonder—she’s a foreigner. “Who are the owners of the apartment?” you might ask.
She came from Russia; her family was originally from Saint Petersburg. Her name was Adelina. I could hardly hear any accent—she had been living in Italy for over five years.
How many evenings I spent watching that shimmer, watching her walk down the path toward the house, coming home from work. She’s beautiful, yes, but it wasn’t just about looks… What am I saying? Of course it was also about looks! I’m no poet, but I have to say something about her hair. It was black, and it fell in a gentle wave over her shoulders, catching the light with a bronze shimmer.
I didn’t know what her job was, nor what her husband did for a living. I didn’t ask and, at first, I wasn’t even curious. Adelina could’ve been a singer (there was a piano in their room) or an actress (she had such expressive features, and a dancer’s figure).
Though, truth be told, I never once saw that happen.I envied him—her husband. He could hold her in his arms and never let go. A boxer? Him? Not very tall, not muscular. I’d even say he looked soft. I wasn’t sure Adelina’s husband had ever set foot in a gym. I was much taller and broader than he was – I’m even a full two heads taller than my own parents. And him? Definitely not an athlete. He looked like your average office worker. He even wore glasses. The apartment was cozy – it was clear a woman with good taste had a hand in its arrangement.
