Genova 2 August 1916
Renata Rossi lifted the frame of her eternal needlework from the taffeta armchair with the crocus-yellow pillows and made herself comfortable. She secured her pince-nez glasses on her well-formed nose, sucked in the view of the rough sea from the open window like a tonic and started her stitching without hurry.
‘Bocher! How on earth did you come up with that name?’
She cast an examining glance over her bone glass frame to her son, sitting opposite her.
‘Well, it’s just that you know so many people. You have acquaintances all over the world. Why not in Salonica?’
‘Lina Bocher is not simply an acquaintance. She is my friend. Something more than a friend. I daresay that I’ve known Lina since a past life. We were, what they call, soulmates. But our contacts became sca
