He got up, looked at me. He smiled. "I don't want to hold you back. It's getting late. Hemingway seems to have written a story that happens in Venice. Why hasn't the book been released in Italy yet?"
"I don't know ..."
"Very masterful. Very masterful of not showing her hidden wounds."
Hidden wounds. I looked at this man with slightly gray hair, with a slightly worn suit, this stranger who has just used the same words as Papa. "But who are you, Toni? Who are you?"
"If you write to him, tell him that I saw him happy and that I wish him still to be." The street lamps were lit along the Riva. Now he was between me and a lamppost; I don't see his face, I only see his dark silhouette against the light. "Who am I? Nobody. Just a friend."
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