and if you don't want it throw it into the sea and it automatically swims back to you. But always check carefully as it is not genuine without this signature: W.T.Inc."
I turned towards the lagoon and looked at the water that, with every passage of the boat, beat in the channel against the white stone of the shore. Then I started walking again and I remembered when, as a young girl, I put the alarm clock ahead of time, so that I could go out free in a silent and empty Venice and I ran up and down the bridges, up and down those rounded concrete buildings that came out a little everywhere from the pavement ("shelters" as had been called by those who had designed them, "coffins for pantegane*" had been defined by the Venetians who never went down there during the air alarms so as not to risk, in fact, "a death from rats"). Running up and down and trying to forget for a few moments the destruction, the fear and the echo of that strangled gasp that had made me rush to a window just in time to see a gondola full of mangled meat pass by and only after a few moments had I understood that she was a human being, a woman still alive, her head covered with a jacket out of modesty of her martyrdom and how I had prayed to God that day, oh how I had prayed to God that if I had to die, He would not let me die like this...
Running up and down until dawn began to rise. So I stopped. I looked at the sun that slowly came out of the lagoon and reddened the sky and the sea, the flight of the seagulls and the sails swollen with the breeze of the "bragozzi." And my eyes filled with tears.
Eyes wet with tears, like when I had looked at the ocean with Papa, like in Cojimar for a different reason. As now, looking at this lagoon, and there was no reason.
No reason. Indeed we should be happy. "You know, actually W.T.I. had a good year. If I ever get the Nobel Prize, which I doubt but people think...
* rat
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