‘I was at Punta Rossa. At home, alone. I was drinking. Less than I do today but I was already drinking. At least I was that evening. I knew I wouldn’t see Palma that day. You know why, of course, it was the anniversary of your parents’ first meeting. Saint Rose’s Day. Their sacred day. So I was drowning my pathetic jealousy in myrtle liqueur, my eyes turned towards the peak of Capu di a Veta. The ghost appeared at 9.02 p.m. at the top of the hill, I have no doubt about the time, Clotilde, the television was on, that programme Thalassa had just started and the screen was showing the exact time. 9.02 p.m. The ghost was standing about a hundred metres away from the house, on the customs path.

9.02 … 23 August 1989.

Clotilde shivered, and huddled against Natale’s burning body; she buried her cheek in the hood of his sweatshirt.

The Fuego had plunged into the void at exactly 9.02 p.m., all the police and fire service reports were absolutely positive about that.

‘I know it’s impossible to believe, Clotilde, I know you’re going to think I’m crazy, but the same second when your parents’ car crashed onto the rocks of Petra Coda, the second when your brother, your father and your mother lost their lives, I saw her appear here through my window, I saw your mother, as clearly as I can see you now. She stared at me as though she wanted to see me one last time before she flew away. She stayed there for a long time, not daring to cross the last few metres that separated her from me. When I understood that she wasn’t going to move, I decided to go out and join her. And in the time that it took me to set down my glass, open the door, and run towards her, she had disappeared.’

His quintuplet fingers firmly gripped Clotilde’s back.

‘I didn’t hear about your parents’ accident until a few hours later,’ Natale went on. ‘That was when I understood. It couldn’t have been your mother. At the moment when she appeared to me, she was four kilometres away, dying. So it could only have been her ghost … And who would believe that?’

‘Me.’

I do, I do believe you! Clotilde hammered away at her brain to admit it. Of course I believe you. Because that ghost has written to me. Because that ghost has looked at me while I stood under the oak tree at Arcanu. Because that ghost has had its breakfast here, has read her paper, because that ghost adopted a dog so it wouldn’t grow bored.

Clotilde planted a long kiss on Natale’s neck. Then, gently, they pulled away from each other.

Regretfully.

‘I’ve got to go. Franck will be back soon. Everything … everything will be so complicated. Seeing each other again. Really seeing each other.’