I meet her at the Bastione Santa Croce. She is chubby, full of tattoos, plump lips and bright eyes. She is showering me with old design ideas, but you can tell, she is suffering, she is a working poor, works a lot, doesn’t get much money. We are leaning on the railing overlooking the city, getting lost amidst lines of roofs and ponds on the horizon, basking in the sun. She claims she saw you right here, a month ago, in front of the old synagogue, what became a church after the Jewish expulsion – the same year that Columbus was claiming America. Most Jews in Cagliari repaired under the Sublime Port, as Istanbul was more tolerant than the rulers of Sardinia. She talks with a lump in her throat, recalling the months you spent together, how you swindled them, patenting their dreams in the Company’s name, leaving them empty handed. She saw you but couldn’t face to stop you, just like a disappointed adolescent lover, disillusioned but still prepared to justify the fact that you betrayed her, in love and work alike. Or maybe she is prepared to stab you with a knife, as you deserve, for cheating on me the same way.