He looked out through the bay window, staring at the cross on the top of Capu di a Veta.

‘It’s funny, Clotilde. You’ve aged more than I have, in the end. Now you’re the one who doesn’t believe in the strange or the irrational. In spite of all the signs. But since you don’t want to hear me talk about this ghost of mine, I’ll simply tell you that I had my reasons for giving in to Aurélia’s advances. Good reasons, compelling reasons.’

The spark that had appeared in his eyes had gone out once and for all.

‘You know,’ he went on, ‘rational couples, the ones who start out without attraction, without illusions, are the ones that last the longest. For one simple reason, Clotilde. One implacable reason. Because you can’t be disappointed! Because things can turn out better than you expected. Who can say that about a love story? Who can say that about passion? That it’s better at the end than it was at the beginning?’

A voice screamed inside Clotilde’s head. Not you, Natale, not you! Anybody can come out with this stuff, any old bastard, but not you!

For years, when things were going badly, she had thought of him. Of Natale Angeli, fisher of mermaids, dolphin-trainer, a man who believed in the stars, in his dreams, as big as the ocean. Who could communicate that faith to a young girl. Who could make her believe that life wasn’t messed up in advance.

Natale Angeli.

Who set down the thimble in which he had drowned his illusions, ready to go off to his shift at Super U. That same fearful gaze, from one window to another, like an euprocte salamander in a vivarium, caught between mare and monti, as if he didn’t know from which direction the ghosts might appear to spirit him away.

‘And what about you, Clotilde, are you part of a happy couple?’

And bang! What did she think?

Pontificating at him like that, being a bit arrogant, borderline stupid.

The rebellious girl, the skulls, the raven-black hair.

What did she think?

That Natale wasn’t disappointed in her, too?

25

Saturday, 19 August 1989, thirteenth day of the holidays
Prussian-blue sky

It’s funny.

It’s the afternoon and people are watching television. Well, some of them are.

Glued to the screens as if something serious has happened. As I walk along the diagonal path, I try to peer into one of the mobile homes owned by some Italians – the ones who put up a huge screen, built a concrete flight of steps in front of their door, a tiled garden path and a little wall around their site planted with pansies and geraniums. Apparently they live here nine months a year.

I don’t see anything on the screen.