But it's time to go back to that afternoon in November, bright and fresh as it was, as tranquil as our home and the stretch of road on which we lived. It was truly the beginning of my life; everything that had happened before was like applying make up and putting a costume on before entering a scene; like turning the lights on; like fiddlers tuning up, the symphony... Now I was about to begin my opera. "Life is an opera," an old Italian tenor who lived and died here used to tell me... And he explained to me one day what that meant, and in such a way that I believed it to be true. It might be worth the trouble to tell you what he explained to me; it will only take a chapter.
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