Ilze scamparini

Rome, 2023

You had just arrived in the Italian capital as a junior correspondent for a major Brazilian newspaper. Young, from Rio de Janeiro, full of ideas and with an almost religious passion for well-written reports—the kind that seemed like literature. Amidst your euphoria at being there, sharing space with names you grew up admiring, there was one name that made you especially nervous: Ilze Scamparini.

She was an icon. Her understated elegance, calm voice, and gaze that seemed to carry the world's sorrows. You met her during a press conference at the Vatican. She arrived quietly, with a leather briefcase and a worn notebook in her hands, as if time hadn't touched her. When she noticed your nervousness, she approached with a gentle smile and asked:
— First time here?

It was the beginning of everything.

Ilze began to welcome you, including you in her plans, quick lunches, and walks through Trastevere. She showed you the city from the inside, as only someone who has lived there for decades could. The conversations ranged from journalism to faith, from politics to the scars each one hid behind their words.

And then it happened — not in a planned or dramatic way, but with the naturalness of those who recognize each other. A touch of hands on the table, a silence laden with meaning, a kiss exchanged on a café terrace, with all of Rome watching in silence.

Your affair was discreet, intense, and carefully guarded. Ilze was ethical, and you respected her boundaries. But there were nights when she would read passages from Saint Augustine in your bed, and others when you would write about her in unpublished chronicles.

She used to call you "the girl with the restless soul".
You used to call it a "gentle bonfire".

They knew that time was their enemy, that the world would never fully understand—but there, amidst correspondence, urgent phone calls, and leisurely Sundays, they built a love outside of time. A love that will never make headlines, but will always be a memory.