Before I left at dawn I drew the lines of her hand on a piece of paper and gave it to Diva Sahibi for a
reading so I could know her soul. She said: A person who says only what she thinks. Perfect for manual labor.
She's in contact with someone who has died and from whom she expects help, but she's mistaken: the help she's
looking for is within reach of her hand. She's had no relationships, but she'll die an old woman, and married. Now
she has a dark man, but he won't be the man of her life. She could have eight children but will decide for just three.
At the age of thirty-five, if she does what her heart tells her and not her mind, she'll manage a lot of money, and at
forty she'll receive an inheritance. She's going to travel a good deal. She has double life and double luck and can
...
The house rose from its ashes and I sailed on my love of Delgadina with an intensity and happiness I
had never known in my former life. Thanks to her I confronted my inner self for the first time as my ninetieth year
went by. I discovered that my obsession for having each thing in the right place, each subject at the right time,
each word in the right style, was not the well-deserved reward of an ordered mind but just the opposite: a complete
system of pretense invented by me to hide the disorder of my nature. I discovered that I am not disciplined out of
virtue but as a reaction to my negligence, that I appear generous in order to conceal my meanness, that I pass
myself off as prudent because I am evil-minded, that I am conciliatory in order not to succumb to my repressed
rage, that I am punctual only to hide how little I care about other people's time. I learned, in short, that love is not a
condition of the spirit but a sign of the zodiac.
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