He turned to look at the sky out the window. The colors were fading; he felt as if he were looking at an oil painting, vivid and luminous, that was slowly fading, being transformed into a faint, delicate, nuanced watercolor. Then a drop of water fell and the whole thing melted into a muddled, indistinct stain. In the end, night fell.

Caterina was behind him. She touched his arm. She looked up at Rocco’s face. She dried his tears.

“I’m sorry . . . Forgive me.”

“What have you done wrong? You’re not to blame.”

The woman stood up on tiptoes and gently pressed her lips against Rocco’s. Her tears mixed with saliva. She grabbed his head, clasping tight the hair on the back of his neck. Their lips parted; their tongues met. Rocco wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. Then they separated.

“No, we can’t . . .” said Rocco in a low voice.

“No,” said Caterina, looking down. “We can’t . . .”

Sunday

It was a Sunday full of chores to get done. Rocco had taken possession of his new place on Via Croix de Ville. A lovely apartment, spacious and full of light. There were exposed beams on the ceiling and a wooden floor. It was nicely furnished with rustic antiques and a black lacquered Chinese armoire. The roomy bedroom had a window overlooking a small piazza. There were frescoes on the facade of the building across the street, and the balconies were full of flowers. If he avoided looking up, he didn’t have to see the mountains, looming dark and ever present. It took him ten minutes to move, just enough time to bring Lupa, her new bed, and his clothing. That was all he had with him. He’d decided to leave his few books as a gift to the next occupant of his apartment on Rue Piave.

The deputy chief had done his best to distract himself by watching Serie A soccer matches, but a depressing tie score in a home game had killed any desire he might have felt to listen to the arguments of sports journalists on television. By now it had become clear to him that the eleven A.S. Roma team members in their red-and-yellow jerseys didn’t so much have any problems in terms of technical skills, but rather a serious case of some mental pathology. More than one trainer seemed to have urgent need of psychiatric care.

No important news from Rome. Seba was on the trail of Enzo Baiocchi, but he seemed to have vanished into thin air. He’d literally demolecularized.