Someone once said that we’re surrounded by dead people. Dead people walk in the street, eat, drink, make love and read lots of books and see lots of films and know lots of important people. But dead people, unlike living people, can’t have palpitations; they can’t have emotions. They use only their intellects, their minds, and they tend to show off their own culture.

I’m scared of dead people.

I’m scared of the thought that one day I will die, too.

At the beach at Roccalumera there was an enormous NO SWIMMING sign, and yet it was the most crowded beach in the whole of eastern Sicily. There was no sand, there were no rocks. Just pebbles. Pebbles that got stuck between your toes, that dug into your tender skin.

“Here, put on your rubber shoes so it won’t hurt,” you said.

I always hated those horrible rubber shoes. They made me feel ugly, like one of those old German tourists with little white hats and those inevitable rubber ballet shoes.

I preferred to hurt myself, and when I did a lot of walking I even ended up liking the sensation, that gentle torture that I inflicted on my childish skin.

I didn’t like going down to the beach in the morning; the ideal time for me was early afternoon, straight after lunch.

“You can’t go swimming, not right after lunch,” you, Grandma, and my aunts all chorused, while the men inside snored, back from their night’s fishing.

“No, I swear, I’m not going to go swimming. I’m going to lie down in the sun,” I said seriously.

“You’ll get sunstroke!”

“I’ll wet my head every now and then,” I replied wisely.

I set off with all the paraphernalia, accompanied by Francesco and Angela, who had previously dispatched me to persuade you to let us go.

We crossed the street, the three of us hand in hand, and once we reached the shore, we threw the inflatable mattress into the water and lay down on it. We played at betting who would get their belly wet first. The water was extremely cold and it felt as though all the food we had just consumed was freezing in our stomachs. After initial unpleasant experiences, we had grown used to jellyfish. Around here they’re small but lethal. We brought olive oil, Nivea Creme, and butter, mixed them all up together, and greased the places where we got stung. In contact with these substances, our skin fried like bacon and eggs. Then we put a hot stone on top, gritted our teeth, and beat our feet on the ground.

Francesco, small as he was, managed to impale the jellyfish with his dagger. On the water’s edge there were dozens of decomposing jellyfish, melting in the sun and giving off steam.