It was the story of a lancer at Austerlitz who advanced ahead of everyone else, amid the smoke and the cannon fire, until he lost his legs and arms, but still continued to advance fearlessly, crawling across the field with the flag between his teeth. That evening, in the hospital, Napoleon gave him a medal, and asked him if he had done it for his Emperor.

“No,” said the soldier.

“For your flag?”

“No.”

“For your country?”

“No.”

“So why did you do it?”

“For a bet,” the soldier replied.

“A nice story,” Corrado said, “very instructive.”

Then he fell silent, and after a moment I heard a dull thud and a groan. I rushed out of my stall and into his. He was leaning against the wall, holding a swollen, bleeding hand to his chest. He had punched the tiled wall and was looking at me with eyes full of tears and astonishment. I was going to help him when I realized he was about to throw up. Just in time, I managed to get him to bend over the bowl.

“Oh, Christ!” he was moaning. “Oh, Christ!”

Then I realized he wasn’t the one moaning, I was. When he turned, he almost fell on top of me. It was an embrace, but mainly it was the need to cling to something that wasn’t the toilet bowl.

“Sit down,” I said, “I’ll go call someone.”

But he was shaking his big head. “Who are you going to call? There’s no one to call.” He was weeping. “We don’t have anyone anymore! We don’t have anyone anymore!”

All at once, a huge, frightening sob echoed around the tiled walls of the bathroom. I looked at him, startled. Christ, how could someone allow himself to get in such a state? Instinctively, I started to retreat until I found myself in the doorway. “I’m getting the hell out of here,” I said. In the corridor I spotted Napoleon’s soldier. He looked worried. “Call someone,” I said, and hurried to the exit. On the sidewalk, I stopped for a moment to warm myself in the sun. Then I got in the old Alfa Romeo and drove to Piazza Navona.