The train was packed, and you couldn’t breathe in the compartment. So I went out into the corridor and sat down on a stool, resting my forehead against the window. It wasn’t comfortable, but I fell asleep listening to the voices that came from the dark-shrouded compartments. The last thing I heard was a girl laughing, in the silence of some small station, then I didn’t hear anything more, and didn’t feel anything either, not even the cold of the window on my forehead.

I woke twice. Once was in the middle of the night as the train crossed the Apennines. They were covered in snow, and I sat looking at them and smoking a cigarette. The second time was when it was almost dawn and we were speeding across the Po Valley. Two hours later I was in Milan.

I got off the train into a grim morning. I was at the end of my tether and I could smell that railroad smell on me that you’re always left with after spending the night on a train. I couldn’t show up at home in this state, without even a suitcase. I went to the public baths. The face I saw in the mirror made me realize what a desperate undertaking this was. It was my eyes that betrayed me. They were swollen and red and my cheeks were hollow and flaccid like an old man’s. I took a shower and got a haircut, but it didn’t greatly improve my appearance. Then I tried having breakfast, but the coffee was disgusting and scorching hot, the plastic-wrapped brioche seemed straight out of a tire factory, and the barista was not much more than a dishwasher who did everything in a hurry. I had to make an effort not to get back on a train and leave.

I knew the smell of the air, that smell of fog and smoking brushwood that Milan always has in winter. It had snowed the day before and the sidewalks were lined with heaps of dirty, frozen snow. The buildings rose in a light haze that muffled sounds, every now and again brightened by a sun that seemed about to be snuffed out. It was cold.

I was still stiff when I got on a streetcar—the streetcars there are great—and sat down on one of the smooth, shiny wooden benches. Around me, people were talking in that old, forgotten accent. They were pale and drained, ready for the daily carnage.