A man came forward into the sun, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. He was from the undertaker’s. He said they couldn’t use the suit Graziano had died in because of the bloodstains. He asked if they should buy one. I said no and went to Graziano’s apartment. There was a closet full of suits. I took out a white one and went back to the hospital, where I handed it over to the still-sweating man. Then I went and sat down next to Graziano’s father on a granite bench against the ivy-covered wall. He was staring at the cats among the cars. “He didn’t have any ideals,” he said. “You can’t live without ideals.” I noticed that he was wearing a war invalid’s silver badge in his buttonhole and I didn’t say anything. This was the man we’d killed in our story, an old man.

We sat waiting in silence and after a while the police officer I already knew showed up. He apologized and handed me a sheet of paper and an envelope with the things Graziano had in his pocket when he’d been brought into the hospital. There were a bunch of keys, a wad of money, an initialed silk handkerchief, a cigar butt, and a wilted carnation that for some reason reminded me of Sant’Elia, maybe because the stalk was cut just the right length to be inserted in a buttonhole. I signed the paper and gave everything to Graziano’s father, except the carnation, which I put in my pocket.

The man from the undertaker’s came to tell us that everything was ready. We followed him into the chapel of rest. There was an intolerable scent coming from a few bunches of flowers and an electric fan was humming, pointing straight at Graziano, stirring the collar of his shirt. “He doesn’t have shoes,” I said and the man from the undertaker’s said he hadn’t been wearing any but that they could send someone to buy a pair. This time too I said no. I didn’t like keeping them waiting, but I took the old Alfa Romeo and went back to the apartment. After I found the shoes, I set off in search of a smoke shop. It wasn’t easy to find one that was open. I drove back with the shoes and the cigarettes.

Graziano’s father was again sitting in the shade of the ivy. I gave the shoes to the man from the undertaker’s, who had to struggle to get them on the feet. I turned away until he’d done it. “Can we close it up?” he said, and I put the pack of Lucky Strikes in the coffin.

“Close it up,” I said, thinking he should have asked Graziano’s father, but the old man sat there motionless, incapable of saying a word, and when I looked at him he merely nodded.