THE SNORING FROM THE OTHER ROOM WAS FOLLOWING THE rhythm of the waves on the beach. A slow, elderly pace. The light from the streetlamps filtered faintly through the venetian blinds, transforming the white bedcover into a zebra skin. Corrado lifted the sheets. Lowered his feet to the floor, which was ice cold. He stood up. The bed barely creaked. He remained motionless, listening. From the other room, Enzo Baiocchi’s deep breathing went on, slow and regular. He crept forward through the shadows. Since midnight, he’d kept his eyes open to accustom them to the darkness, and now he could see like a cat. The glare from the streetlamp outside made everything so much simpler. He put his hand on the doorknob. He’d left the door ajar to avoid making noise. He opened it slowly, and the hinges that he’d oiled while the other man was taking a shower obeyed silently. He was in the hallway now. He knew that hallway by heart, and he knew that it was only seven short footsteps to the living room. One foot in front of the other, careful and precise, he reached the door that gave onto the little parlor where Enzo was fast asleep on the sofa bed. He touched the door handle. He gripped it and slowly lowered it. He’d oiled that door thoroughly as well, and he managed to open it wide without so much as a squeak. The sea kept lashing the beach with its waves, at the same rate as Baiocchi’s breathing. An odor of armpits and cigarettes penetrated his nostrils. It hovered in the room as if it were a thick and greasy fog. There the monster lay, blanket over his chest, in a tank top T-shirt. His arms were thrown wide like some savage Christ. His mouth hung open and his breathing was lifting and lowering his hairy chest. It was all a matter of a minute, no more. A single minute, a leap in the dark, and then it would all go back to how it had been before, before Enzo Baiocchi had invaded his life. He reached back and put his hand on his buttocks. He felt the handle of the knife, held snugly by the elastic band of his underwear. It was cold, colder than the blade. Or maybe it was his blood that no longer pumped through his veins. One foot in front of the other, precisely, never once taking his eyes off the man on the sofa bed. He’d done this once before, in the country, with a hog. It had been easy. He’d pushed his blade against the hog’s throat and had driven it in, with a sharp, accurate movement. The hog had squealed and stretched its legs four or five times; then it had lain there, dangling and spraying blood out of the cut like an open faucet. Enzo wouldn’t even scream. He wouldn’t have time. Corrado would sink the knife right into his heart, with both hands, with all his weight and all his rage. These are the last breaths you’re ever going to take, you piece of shit, he thought to himself.