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the molds, made so well that they looked like real ducks. Then came a stirring from the direction of the sea and Nanuck had already aimed and brought down a couple of coots.

"Then there were other passages. That flapping of wings, the spiraling down into the mirror of the water, at times still frozen, was in a certain sense beautiful to see. But the sudden breaking of those so peaceful and perfect flights was very sad, at least for me.

"So we were inside the barrels, Nanuck and I, within a span of each other. With each shot the bullets flew from the rifle and shells!, still hot they fell on my head. I tried to dodge them but had great difficulty doing so: the space was limited in the barrel and I certainly couldn't go outside, we were surrounded by water. So nearly all of them landed in my hair and in the end, between the bullets and the rumble of the rifle, you can imagine how I was defeated and bruised like a cirrhosis patient. But it was good all the same. The lights, the raindrops and the reflections on the ice, then the return of the boats that emerged from the reeds, approached, gathered in the canal... just beautiful.

"In front of another Casone they lined up the downed ducks on the ground. While the men warmed themselves with the wine, I went to dry myself by the fireplace. Everyone began to speak about the day, but they all talked and no one listened, at least it seemed like that to me. I tried to add up the number of ducks killed by the different men but - strangely - the totals did not add up. Yes, wine can cause one to embellish things, but the ducks lined up on the ground should have been at least four times as many as that proffered up.

"My drying hair fell on my face and eyes and made me uncomfortable. I didn't want to go all the way to the other Casone to get the comb, so I asked if anyone had one. But they all ignored me...