From that height, looking down at the river is like peering into a well, and at that juncture the river curves sharply to create a wide clear mirror reflecting the houses. Farther off, among the gently rising and expanding hills – neatly organized like the wings of a theatre – one sees other, milder curves where the water flows languidly and shimmers brightly. This is the town’s most beautiful view and so, long ago, there under the portico they had built the Malpasso Caffè, its large windows shutterless even in winter. The main street begins there, rounds a bend and culminates in a more sheltered piazza. The Malpasso’s clientele is always the same. The veterinarian, the pharmacist and the bailiff frequent the Malpasso, while the doctor, the captain and the lawyer all go to the Theatre Caffè.

The old fellow was considered one of the newest customers, even if he had been coming to the Malpasso every day at the same time for two years now, always sitting in the same spot by the window. The red velvet upholstery covering the seats along the walls was shabby, the planks in the wooden floor were loose, the mirrors foggy. But the town was beautiful and, in the spring, the mild sky was further softened by the clouds, while mists rising off the river drifted across the hills. In winter, the river froze between banks of hardened snow, and at night one heard the ice cracking.

Initially the old man was given a measured, if not actually hostile, welcome. No one knew where he had come from – a retired bureaucrat, but this became known only later. He lived behind the church and was somewhat bothered by the bells (however – and this is what the neighbours said – the bells drowned out the shrieks of an angry wife who used her bitter voice to yell incessantly). Instead, at the Malpasso he was happy; no wife, no bells. Contented, he licked his lips, leaving them a little moist. He stayed for as long as he could at the Malpasso, together with people who had increasingly shown themselves to be kind, talkative and polite. At certain times, when the young people came to play billiards and turned on the radio, it could get a bit boisterous. The elderly played interminable games of cards, dominoes and dice. Every day, the old man showed up looking as if he had run away from home, his wool scarf wrapped around his neck, his bowler hat pulled down to his ears. Having scooted along the walls in a near-sprint, he arrived completely out of breath and went to sit in his usual place, where he loved to look out at the river and hills. That landscape was a privilege. He always talked about it while gesturing with his hands, inserting a Latin phrase here and there. After a while everyone began to call him ‘The Professor’.

At the first hint of winter he put on an old coat with a red fur collar, yet he still managed to come down with a cough that lasted for weeks. Whenever he was overcome by a coughing fit, he shook like a twig, then dried his eyes on a handkerchief before having a glass of steaming grog. He was happy at the Malpasso. The young veterinarian, who had taken a shine to the old man, gave him a prescription, and the others, laid-back and light-hearted, had teased him: ‘How well you take care of him. Isn’t it animals you look after?’