In March 1991, an old friend telephoned me because his wife had left him. He said he merely wanted to talk with me, to have someone listen to him, to have a sounding board. Rejecting my "macho" offer to get drunk together, or to "get together with the boys," or even for "just the two of us" to have dinner at a quiet restaurant, my final suggestion—a game of briscola—was slowly, deliberately accepted with a very happy, "Hey, Enrico, that's not a bad idea. I used to play with my Sicilian grandmother, who told me the only way to win was to cheat! Let's do it! But I haven't played for 25 years!"