‘No, Clotilde,’ he went on. ‘Maria-Chjara was dragging her feet for one reason only: the car. Nicolas didn’t have a licence. Only about ten hours of driving lessons and a few hundred outings in the car with his dad. It was as simple as that. Maria-Chjara was thinking about the narrow roads, the bends, the ravines, the stray wild animals; in short she was scared of getting herself killed.’

‘So they didn’t go.’

‘No, not on the evening of the twenty-third of August, you already know that, and you know why. What no one knows is what happened before that. To persuade Maria-Chjara, Nicolas suggested proving to her that it wasn’t dangerous.’

Slowly, Clotilde’s body froze; an army of invisible insects immobilising her feet.

‘A few hours before going up to Arcanu, your parents were very busy. Your mother was getting ready for her romantic evening, and your father, just back from a boat-trip, was going through a file that he wanted to discuss with Cassanu later. So it was the dream opportunity, the only opportunity, in fact. Your brother took the keys of the Fuego and asked Maria-Chjara to come with him for a little spin, just a few kilometres, down to Galéria, a few sharp bends, to show his sweetheart that he was in charge, that he didn’t need a bit of paper to be able to hold a steering wheel, that he was careful.’

The cannibal insects climbed up along Clotilde’s thighs. Others had managed to work their way into her lungs, and were spreading out in seething swarms to block her breathing.

‘They returned ten minutes later. Nicolas parked the Fuego in exactly the same spot. They both got out. I was in charge of reception at that moment, and I was the only one who saw.’

The insects, gathering at the top of her trachea, allowed her only a ridiculously thin whimper.

‘Saw what?’

‘I saw and I heard them. Nicolas bent down to look under the car before assuring Maria-Chjara: “There’s nothing, nothing at all.” When he brought his hands, black with grease and oil, close to her lacey white dress, Maria recoiled as if he had the plague, and let him have it with both barrels. I was listening. I worked out what had happened.’

Clotilde gulped. Thousands of little feet were crowding into her throat, climbing along her temples, piercing her eardrums with their stings in a deafening buzz. But not deafening enough. Not enough to cover the words she would never have wanted to hear.

‘Nicolas had crashed. After less than three bends he had carried straight on and scraped the undercarriage of the Fuego against the rocks of the Capo Cavallo belvedere. Nicolas had had to stop and reverse, without knowing what the car was rubbing against, what was twisting, what was tearing beneath the bonnet, beneath the wheels, with an unbearable noise of crunching metal that was lost among the mountains.’