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Chapters (84)
  1. Dedication
  2. Time is a Killer
  3. Contents
  4. Map
  5. 1
  6. Twenty-seven years later …
  7. IRevellata
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. IISaint Rose’s Day
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. 47
  55. 48
  56. 49
  57. 50
  58. 51
  59. 52
  60. 53
  61. 54
  62. IIISempre giovanu
  63. 55
  64. 56
  65. 57
  66. 58
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. Twenty-seven years later
  77. Acknowledgements
  78. AFTER THE CRASH
  79. BLACK WATER LILIES
  80. DON’T LET GO
  81. About the Author
  82. Also by Michel Bussi
  83. More on W&N
  84. Copyright

I didn’t know something like this could exist, looking at a man for a quarter of an hour, swapping a few words and then not being able to think of anything but him, day and night.

Is this love, can you tell me?

Suffering unbearably for a man who has nothing to do with me, who’s probably forgotten me already, who only spoke to me as a way of getting close to my mother.

Tell me?

Besides, Maman is now a length ahead of Papa. They talked yesterday about the evening of the twenty-third, there was some hard bargaining, and Papa finally gave in. We’re all going for drinks at my grandparents’ place, Arcanu Farm, before my parents go on up to Casa di Stella to celebrate their anniversary.

All the cousins are going to the A Filetta concert. Everyone except us.

Maman has won. She deserves her bunch of wild flowers on Saint Rose’s day. That’s making her a bit conceited too. But at least it means we don’t have to go and listen to the polyphonic music, that’s certain now.

I’ll tell you about it, but first I have to tell you about 19 August.

About what happened on 19 August 1989, i.e. today.

Far away, very far from here.

But close, very close to Maman’s heart.

A crazy thing.

* * *

19 August 1989 … he thought again.

After that day, nowhere in the world, nothing would ever be as it was before, even if no one had really measured the scope of what happened on that day. The biggest revolutions, the ones that overwhelm mankind, wear a mask.

19 August 1989. The dawn of a new world.

No one cared, however, everyone was on holiday.

No one cared that day, no one except Palma.

24

17 August 2016, 10 a.m.

‘I’ve been waiting for you, Clotilde. I even thought you would come before now. I thought I’d be the first person you would come and see.’

Clotilde gazed at the sea through the enormous bay window of the Punta Rossa villa. The view was still as dizzying as ever. The house felt as if it was hooked on to the cliff, and you’d only have to open the French windows to plunge straight into the Mediterranean. Turning on your heels and looking through the opposite window, you could see the entire Balagne mountain range, Notre Dame de la Serra at the front, then Capu di a Veta, Monte Cinto behind that.

A timeless wonder.

Only Natale had aged.

He’d aged a great deal.