That was undoubtedly the most important day of my life; I was aware of it from the beginning. I am describing it in the present tense, doctor, so that the scene will unfold live before your eyes. I want you to feel some of the hurt it does. I throw her out of bed at five o'clock in the morning: she is very sleepy and doesn't want to wake up so early; she clutches at me with a sigh and tries to hold me back, but I don't want to waste even a minute of this precious day and force her to get up by tickling her. There is, in that area, the majestic ruin of a Gothic church that apparently hosted Templar rites: it stands in the middle of the fields, towering between the yellow of the sunflowers and the blue of the sky. I had read the legend of that mysterious place, much like that of King Arthur's Sword in the Stone: it had been the archangel Michael who had guided the young and dissolute knight Galgano to a delightful meadow, covered with beautiful flowers, which spread a wonderful perfume. Here he had been converted, and here, a year later, he went to die, at only thirty-three years of age: and drawing his sword, not being able to make a cross from wood, he immediately planted the same sword in the ground, as a cross. And it, by divine virtue, was welded together in such a way that neither he nor anyone else, by any effort, until now could ever draw it. It is six o'clock in the morning when we arrive among those sublime ruins: the sun is rising, there is no one there; sneaking in, is child's play. She remains spellbound by the spectacle. I see her again in an unforgettable backlight, her hair with copper-colored highlights, her red and white dress, motionless in front of the pale framework of the church, while the sunflowers, demure and concurring, turn their faces the other way, and I, sitting in a mullioned window of the ruined cloister, thank God for existing. I take her by the hand and lead her inside the church. We wander in silence among the mighty stone pillars, the vertiginous walls, the pointed arches. It seems that the architect built the building following the ratio of the musical octave called the natural diatonic scale applied to the church's sacred geometry. Large areas of the floor, now almost gone, are replaced by patches of grass; the roof is completely destroyed, swept away by the collapse of the abbey bell tower: above us, beyond the glimpse of the travertine walls, the sky as far as the eye can see. Now I understand why Akhnathon had all the temple roofs removed to let God in directly. I sit in a niche that opens along one of the aisles, under the rose window from which the first rays of the sun filter in, and welcome her on my lap. The wide skirt swirls open on the grass. The silence is unreal, broken only by the beating of wings and the subdued cooing of doves flying from one wall to another, reaching their nests in the cracks of the walls. High up in front of us, a tree has taken root in the bare stone on which the roof once rested: it lives by sucking up the dust dissolved by the rain and projects its dark silhouette against the crisp blue of the sky; I am struck by its strength, its toughness, its obvious pride in being alive. I take her face in my hands and look into her eyes. Now, I tell her seriously, if you want, we can do it. Here? Yes, here. She looks around: we are alone. The scarlet-white skirt open over us gives no glimpse. I remain seated. She kisses me with incredible transport. I interrupt her with gentle firmness: Not like that. Why? It's no use everything we've done if we make the same mistake again. What mistake? Greed, Antonia. I'm not an ice cream or a piece of cake. Look into my eyes: it's me in here. She looks at me, seems to understand, nods her head. I've always thought, I would like to have my virginity back, so I could give it to you again... Now I am a virgin again... take it again... Antonia... I cannot describe her smile. She intertwines her fingers with mine. I take hold of her gaze and never leave it again. Everything happens in absolute silence. The clouds pass among the last stars, the rays of the sun pass through the eye of the Rota, the Knight of God passes among the fields, as he rides absorbed the Archangel Michael appears to him in dazzling light, the horse rears up and unseats him, the knights of the Temple with their three leaders pass into the center nave, white cloak red cross, Hugues de Payns, white cloak black cross patentee, Hermann Von Salza, black cloak white cross, Raymond du Puy de Provence, the knights cross the walls as in Magritte's Signature in White, disappear swallowed up by the cruciform pillars, Christ's poor comrades tie their horses in the shade of the cypresses, groom them carefully, mend the tears in their lo-robes. If they are not on horseback or there are no special orders, after leaving the chapel, the brothers must take care of their equipment and armor, repairing or having repaired what needs repairing. They lean their shields against the columns, make the sign of the cross, and intone a chant that crosses all the ratios of the natural diatonic scale and sublimates into mystic stone. They embrace in the shadows between the pointed arches, the Huntsman crosses the roof with Betelgeuse and Rigel, the torrid dog barks after the elusive fox, spews flames, dries heads, splits fields. They confessed horrible and shameful deeds, sodomy, infamous osculum, Baphomet worship, confessed to denying Christ and spitting on the cross. The heavens are saturated with electricity: the ceiling rips open above us, lightning strikes, the vaults collapse with tremendous rumbling, an orb of fire zig-zags across the altar, splits the tabernacle, the chalice topples over, consecrated hosts twirl in the air, settles floating on the bare earth. Therefore with bitterness and sorrow, we, with the approval of the holy council, suppress the order of the Templars, its rule, its habit and its name, by absolute, everlasting decree, forbidding it forever. The storm passes over the remains of the temple, the rain passes to extinguish the fire, Van Gogh's ravens pass over the yellow sunflowers, drop a seed from their beaks, and as the first slender stem sprouts among the bare stones, I feel a kind of earthquake of the soul radiate from me toward her, crossing her whole body. She is seized by an uncontrollable tremor, she is out of breath, for a moment I think she is about to die: I see her pupils dilate, her gaze melt, veil, extinguish; I lose consciousness in her eyes and I'm only sap, fresh young sap that floods the roots, the trunk, the parched foliage of the tree, and gives it life again. When I come back to myself I realize that we have spent more than an hour in that trance-like state: it is almost eight o'clock. I feel completely drained and she looks at me bewildered, breathing hard. What have you done to me? I answer her with a smile: I think we made love... Antonia... It is a tremendous thing. It is a holy thing, I correct her. She slides to sit beside me in the grass. She trembles, looking shocked. I kneel in front of her. I have to tell you something important. I don't want to hear it. I lift her face and force her to look into my eyes. You "must" hear it. She breathes deeply and resigns herself to listening to me. I went through hell before I made sense of it all. I looked for the most trivial answers and the most absurd ones, I became my own monkey. But I finally understood. What?, she asks in a faint voice. That it is not impossible. It is so short life compared to infinite time. The soul has no age. We are children's souls, Antonia: that is the answer I was looking for. She is on the verge of tears. I know what you're thinking, I continue, There are biological limits for a woman, social needs. But I'm almost nineteen, I'll soon be a man: I can work, I can get busy if I want to. She doesn't answer. Let's save ourselves, Antonia... we can only make it together, the two of us. She closes her eyes. Look at me, I tell her. She opens her eyes again with an expression of deep sorrow. It was only a matter of waiting for me to grow up: now I have grown up. Thank you for waiting for me all this time... She remains looking at me interdicted, as if she does not understand. I am asking you to marry me, Antonia. She falls silent, her gaze barred. Marry me, Antonia: marry me. For a moment she stands staring at me in silence, stunned. Then she jerks up as if bitten by a snake, shaking something invisible away from herself, my contact perhaps, she clasps her arms with her hands, shakes her head, wants to speak but can't, just says no. Finally she looks at me, bent over, contracted by a kind of pain in her stomach, her eyes bloodshot: I didn't believe, she says in a low, trembling voice, I really didn't believe. What, I ask her dumbfounded. That you could be so bad, so bloody bad. Why? What did I do to you? I've been everything you wanted, mother sister friend whore nun, but that's not enough for you, no: you want to experience your power to the fullest, you want to submerge me in ridicule, you want to destroy me. You want me dead, dead! I get up and try to approach her, but she has the most violent reaction: she pushes me away from herself screaming: don't touch me. She runs away sobbing and shouting: I hate you. I see her moving away as if in a dream, in a fugue of pointed arches. My legs do not obey the impulse to chase her, they bend. I fall to sit on a stone block. Man has transgressed the divine law: therefore discover in his limbs another law that refuses to obey the law of his will and imprisons him in the law of the fall. I do not know how long I remain like this, unable to understand where I have gone wrong. Then the silence that surrounds me gives me a tremendous twinge in my brain: I redeem myself as if from a spell, get up and run outside at breakneck speed with a horrible foreboding. She is not there. I cannot call her, my voice refuses to come out. A car pulls away: I suddenly understand that she has asked for a ride. I run to the car, which I have parked too far away, and set off in desperate pursuit. But I have accumulated an inexcusable delay and am completely out of my mind; I can't remember anything anymore, I can barely see where I'm going. I take a wrong turn, get lost in a maze of dirt roads among forests of oaks and chestnut trees. Suddenly I am overwhelmed by the atrocious analogy: everything ends as it began. I stop the car in front of a crumbling wall. My nerves give out, I cry desperately, my face in the seat next to the driver's seat. Then I get back up, struggle to find some clarity, try to concentrate: for more than half an hour I stand motionless staring at the path of a tiny red spider among the uneven bricks, unraveling my thoughts along the essential geometries of its comings and goings. I suddenly remember that I have a road map in the glove compartment: I finally manage to get my bearings, reach the main road, shift into fifth gear and run wildly. At the exit of a tunnel I am forced to slam on the brakes in order not to rear-end the last car of a wedding procession proceeding in the same direction as me, trumpeting deafeningly. I feel a rush of hatred for those imbeciles who are driving a hot pole through my guts, I honk in turn, asking to let me pass, they pay no attention to me, I steer sharply and overtake them risking a head-on collision. They blow me to hell, I show them the middle finger out the window, I hope they divorce soon, I hope they die. I plunge into the darkness of the tunnel at a hundred and eighty mph. When I finally get to the hotel I rush to my room, climbing the steps three at a time. I find the closet open: all her things have disappeared along with her suitcase. She has forgotten only her toothbrush, which rests sadly against mine in the glass on the bathroom shelf. I collapse on the bed and feel nothing more.