Page 9

It almost stopped raining. I've waited a long time, I can wait a few more minutes.

Once, at this point a dirt road ran between low houses, rare cars, many wagons, many bicycles. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry. Who knows how many are left here, under the rubble, in the earth torn apart by the bombs, now covered by the asphalt of these four roads.

That blue car is nice. And so big it must be American. Cross the intersection, slow down, stop. Strange: what can rich Americans want in Latisanam and by chance in the rain?

A honk. I look around but I don't see anyone. Another honk. Nice sound. A really nice car. I think I heard my name shouted, but maybe I was wrong, there is no one.

The blue car recedes, approaches, approaches right to me. The rear door opens, Carlo's head looks out: "Come on quickly, come in!" I no longer feel cold or wet, I am in a delightfully sprung blue car that moves in silence.

"You didn't expect to find me in a Buick, did you? Sorry I'm late, but we went to Fraforeano - from Titti - and we started talking about war, and you know how Ernest is when he starts talking about war. By the way, do you know Ernest, Ernest Hemingway? Ernest, this is Adriana."

The massive man seated in front has now turned towards me. "Terribly sorry, Adriana. It's all my fault. I hope you will forgive me." He says. I'm sorry. I hope you will forgive me.

So this is Hemingway, which all of Venice speaks of. An old man: forehead cut by two deep wrinkles, mustache straight over the lips. The lips are folded to one side, light-hearted, the eyes are alive and penetrating: maybe not...