Attilio had attacked him but didn’t look him in the face; indeed, he had lowered his head on Carlo’s chest and his hair kept brushing his chin. He squeezed the muscles of Carlo’s arm and Carlo squeezed his, but Carlo was unable to open his mouth and cry out: What the hell’s the matter with you? For now he smelled – he saw it enter his nostrils like dirty white smoke – the smell of death, that smell that can be reproduced, if much too lightly, by doing what we said at the beginning. So he kept his mouth clamped shut, and when at the height of his exertions he could no longer breathe enough air with his nose, he twisted his head away until his neck bone creaked. It was while twisting his head that he saw the dispatcher, standing there watching and making no move to intervene. Couldn’t he understand that they were fighting, when the two of them looked like a couple of drunkards leaning on each other for support? But what the dispatcher couldn’t imagine was how they were gripping each other’s muscles. Carlo was wondering how Attilio’s frightfully skinny arms were able to resist his grasp and not turn into pulp. But Attilio’s grip was terribly strong too, and if he hadn’t had to keep himself from swallowing the smell of death, Carlo would have cried out in pain.

He had already realized why Attilio had confronted him this way, and oddly enough it didn’t seem at all absurd or bestial to him. Carlo understood Attilio even while the man was trying to break his arms.

Now Attilio raised his head again and held it to one side, and Carlo saw his tight-shut eyes, his sharp cheekbones shining as though smeared with wax, and his mouth wide open to emit the smell of death. He too closed his eyes, no longer able to bear looking at that open mouth, and concentrated only on keeping his feet firmly planted on the ground and not loosening his hold.

Although the station bell had begun ringing insistently, he could distinctly hear Attilio’s heartbeat banging against his ribs as though to break through and burst on Carlo like a projectile.

He decided to put an end to it. That smell, he now smelled it everywhere inside him; it had passed through his nostrils, his mouth, his pores, as relentless as the very power that gave it off; already it must have enveloped his brain, for he felt crazed. He raised one leg and brought it forward to trip his opponent and knock him down into the gutter. But just then Attilio’s head slid slowly down Carlo’s belly, his hands too loosened their hold and came down along Carlo’s arms, now they grasped only his wrists, and gasping ‘Mhuuuh! Mhuuuh!’ he also let go of the wrists, and without Carlo even giving him a push, he ended up sitting on the ground. Then, toppled by the weight of his upturned head, he fell backward full length on the pavement.