He had captured a lizard for him, so that he wouldn’t feel lonely when he left, and so that he wouldn’t be scared at night. He’d found the animal inside the deepest of crevasses and had woken it from its winter sleep. Unlike the other creatures that hibernated during winter, this one hadn’t curled up in a ball because its body didn’t require any warmth; its blood always ran cold, even in the summer. He’d tied it to his companion’s hand with a piece of string. He caressed its tiny head as he was about to leave, and in doing so brushed against the skeleton’s phalanges. They made a brief clicking sound, and so he waited, hoping this creature, too, might rise from its sleep as the lizard had done.

But nothing happened.

-52-

-52-

Can I still do this job?

It’s not physical effort I’m worried about. I’m used to dragging this body—this old grumbling friend—around with me, I’m used to dealing with its complaints even when they make me grit my teeth in pain.

It’s not my swollen feet I’m ashamed of, or how my hands lose their grip sometimes, or how my eyes go blurry until I can’t distinguish the words on a page.

It’s the idea of my mind fading away that keeps me up at night: what am I, if not my thoughts, my memories, my dreams, my hopes for the future? What am I without these feelings, without my dignity?

Here I go again, spoiling these pages with troubles that aren’t worth the ink they’re scribbled in.

Anyway: where was I? (I’ve been asking myself this question too often these days . . . )

Item 19 on the agenda: security measures for the feast of Saint Nicholas in Travenì. It’s the night of the Krampus. Who knows whether our own Devil will show his face. I’m ready. I’m waiting for him.

Travenì had shed her mourning clothes and spruced herself up for the occasion: the streets were decorated with silver lamps shaped like snowflakes, and strings of fairy lights stretched from building to building along the main road. Windows and balconies were adorned with Christmas decorations, and a candle burned behind every pane, as tradition dictated. An enormous fir tree that smelled of resin had been put up in the main square; at dusk, it had come to life with thousands of lights, a shining comet at its tip.

The fires were kindled. The stalls began to light up and spread the scent of mulled wine and roasted chestnuts. The chatter became more animated, fuelled by a sip or two of alcohol and the arrival of the first tourists. A loudspeaker intoned Christmas carols. The pub and various small restaurants radiated a smell of hot, fragrant food. The streets soon filled up with a peaceful throng.