October 15 – We walk around Rome like crazed ants, seeking some friends to communicate our inebriating happiness to. Everything appears to us in a new dimension. What is our future? Will we be able to prolong our lives, combat diseases, avoid wars, give food to all? We speak of nothing else. Even more so than in the preceding days we feel that something new is to come. It’s not the end of the world, but the beginning of the world. There’s the wait before the curtain is raised, made harsher by a play we do not know. This wait is only disturbed by predictable prophecies, told by those who had always said so and now are ready for the new challenge; by the Communists, who have already tried to secure the Martian for themselves, by the Fascists, who raise the question of his race.

October 18 – I finally managed to see the spaceship. It is impressive. The police guards are kind, they speak softly, almost as if to have their presence forgiven. After all, no one commits the slightest disrespectful act. A child who tried to write something in chalk on the shiny surface of the spaceship has been spanked by his parents. I too, like everyone, touched the spaceship, and in that metallic warmth I felt a profound sweetness I had never experienced before. A stranger and I were smiling, looking at each other, and in the end we shook hands, moved by the same fraternal impulse; and later on I did not feel embarrassed by my state of commotion. It seems that the spaceship has already performed two miracles, but there is no proof, even though some women have insisted on leaving memorial marble tablets on the ground, with their thanks. A municipal employee has already been contracted to sell candles, but it seems that the proceeds will benefit a Catholic charity.

Leaving the enclosure I see Mario Soldati. He’s there, sitting on the grass, his tie undone, wearing a shirt and vest. He was sighing, actually devastated by the reality that was a few steps away. ‘It’s over!’ he said when he saw me. He held my hands and I felt that his emotion was sincere. ‘C’est la fin!’ he added then in French, and he repeated the phrase many times, until both of us lost track of its meaning: we looked at each other bewildered, not knowing what else to say. We then went to have a drink instead, in one of the many improvised kiosks which popped up illegally in the riding track. Soldati wanted a soda, the kind that used to be sold at fairs, with a ball floating inside, and he insisted in vain. They don’t make them any more. The curious incident caused by a young thief who had managed to make his way into the spaceship distracted us from our extremely favourable considerations on the Martian. Recognized by a guard as one of those guys who steal from foreigners’ cars, he tried to escape feigning an epileptic seizure. He has an opaque face, suspicious and hardened by his work. Fear made him a savage.