The girl was still in the dark on the floor, and I was about to climb over her again when I felt her grab me by the jacket. It was an imperious gesture to the point that, almost without realizing it, I found myself kneeling next to her, with the ice bucket in my hand. I was surprised to see that she was crying. I tried to think of something to say to her, but I couldn’t think of anything, so I simply stayed there, by her side, while an ironic but consoling voice on the phone kept telling her that she wouldn’t die. The girl didn’t say anything. All she did was listen and cry, and then, when the voice stopped, she stood up, passed the back of her hand over her nose, and vanished in the direction of Viola’s bathroom, leaving me to replace the receiver. I didn’t take it amiss. I knew the type. There are people who have the singular characteristic of asking for help while at the same time giving you the impression they’re doing you a favor. I put back the telephone and returned to the living room with the ice bucket. Immediately afterward, I began shivering. I knew what it was. One of the most unpleasant effects of alcohol was that it screwed up the part of my brain that regulated my body heat. I went and smoked a cigarette next to what remained of the fire, and soon after that the girl returned. Her transformation was amazing. Nobody could have suspected that, only a short while earlier, tears had been streaking down her conceited face. The perfunctory glance she gave me made me feel I was no more to her than a handkerchief.

The party came to an end about three. The guests abandoned their armchairs and left, as if answering a call. Everything happened so quickly, I had the impression after a while that I was watching a movie whose projectionist has started showing the remaining footage at double the speed. But that, too, might have been an effect of the alcohol, I don’t know. All I do know is, within a quarter of an hour the room was silent. A curtain swayed in front of an open window, and the turntable was going around and around beneath a pile of empty glasses and full ashtrays.

Viola and the girl were plotting on the couch, Renzo was sucking at an empty pipe, absorbed in his own thoughts, and I was looking at the titles of the books on a shelf. When I moved on to the paintings hanging on the walls, one of them, a freight car abandoned on a disused line, reminded me of my old Alfa Romeo abandoned on the other side of the city.