Sometimes it was Liz Norton who would call Espinoza and ask about Morini, whom she'd talked to
the day before and whom she'd thought seemed a little depressed. That same day Espinoza would call
Pelletier and inform him that according to Norton, Morini's health had taken a turn for the worse, to
which Pelletier would respond by immediately calling Morini, asking him bluntly how he was, laughing
with him (because Morini did his best never to talk seriously about his condition), exchanging a few
unimportant remarks about work, and later telephoning Norton, maybe at midnight, after putting off
the pleasure of the call with a frugal and exquisite dinner, and assuring her that as far as could be
hoped, Morini was fine, normal, stable, and what Norton had taken for depression was just the
Italian's natural state, sensitive as he was to changes in the weather (maybe the weather had been
bad in Turin, maybe Morini had dreamed who knows what kind of horrible dream the night before),
thus ending a cycle that would begin again a day later, or two days later, with Morini calling Espinoza
for no reason, just to say hello, that was all, to talk for a while, the call invariably taken up with
unimportant things, remarks about the weather (as if Morini and even Espinoza were adopting British
conversational habits), film recommendations, dispassionate commentary on recent books, in short, a
generally soporific or at best listless phone conversation, but one that Espinoza followed with odd
enthusiasm, or feigned enthusiasm, or fondness, or at least civilized interest, and that Morini attended
to as if his life depended on it, and which was succeeded two days or a few hours later by Espinoza
calling Norton and having a conversation along essentially the same lines, and Norton calling Pelletier,
and Pelletier calling Morini, with the whole process starting over again days later, the call transmuted
into hyperspecialized code, signifier and signified in Archimboldi, text, subtext, and paratext,
reconquest of the verbal and physical territoriality in the final pages of Bitzius, which under the
circumstances was the same as talking about film or problems in the German department or the
clouds that passed incessantly over their respective cities, morning to night.
With friends like them, life is full.