The warder in charge of the register ushered me into the interview room and, with what seemed to me a malevolent smirk, closed the door. The heat was suffocating, worse than I’d expected. I removed my jacket, loosened my tie, unbuttoned my collar, and finally decided that I was not a prisoner, that there was no rule that said I had to stay shut in there gasping for breath, so I opened the door. The warder in the corridor gave me a nasty look, seemed about to say something, but then let it go.

I leaned against the doorpost, half in and half out of the room. I took out a cigarette but didn’t light it. Too hot even for that.

I felt the shirt sticking to my back with sweat, and into my brain burst a thought straight from the recesses of my childhood.

What you need is talcum powder.

When we were sweaty as children, they sprinkled us with talcum powder. If you made a fuss, because you thought you were too grown up for talcum powder, you were told that you might catch pleurisy. If you asked what pleurisy was, you were told that it was a serious illness. The tone in which they said this put paid to any wish to ask again.

Thinking thus, I realized that it was the second time in as many days that I had remembered childhood things. This was odd, because usually I never thought about my childhood. Whenever anyone asked how my childhood had been, I always answered at random, sometimes saying I’d had a happy childhood, sometimes that I’d been a sad little boy. Sometimes, when I wanted to make an impression, I said I’d been a strange child. It gave me an aura of glamour, I thought. We special people have often been strange children, was the implication.

The truth was that I remembered next to nothing of my childhood and had no wish to think about it. I had occasionally tried really hard to remember, and it made me sad. So I gave up. I didn’t care for sadness, I preferred to avoid it.

Now I looked with amazement at these fragments of memory popping out from goodness knows where. They made me slightly melancholy and gave me a sense of astonishment and curiosity. But not sadness, not what had previously made me look away.

I meditated on this further change in me, and a really cold shiver ran up my spine to the roots of the hair on the nape of my neck and down my arms. Even in that heat.

I lit that cigarette.

He came up to me and gave me his hand, with a motion of his head that looked to me like a little bow. It seemed only natural to reply in kind, but then I felt embarrassed.

He had a newspaper with him, and stood aside for me to enter the room.

We sat down, both of us avoiding the ever-present, broken-seated armchair. Abdou handed me the newspaper with a kind of smile.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It talks about you, Avvocato.” The tone of his voice had changed.

I took the paper. It was three days old. It mentioned the hearing of the previous Monday and there was even a photo of me. I hadn’t seen it, let alone read it: for a year now I hadn’t bought the papers.

In the course of the preliminary inquiries Renna stated that he had seen the accused passing his bar, very close to the scene of the disappearance and only a few minutes before the disappearance itself. Interrogated in court by the public prosecutor, the witness confirmed these statements with a great show of confidence.

The sensation occurred in the course of the spectacular cross-examination conducted by the counsel defending the Senegalese, Avvocato Guido Guerrieri. After putting a number of apparently innocuous questions, from the answers to which there emerged, however, a patently hostile attitude on the part of Renna towards non-European immigrants, Avvocato Guerrieri showed the witness a number of photographs of black men, asking him if they portrayed anyone he recognized. The bar owner said no, and it was then that the defence counsel played his trump card: two of those photographs were in fact of the defendant, Abdou Thiam. The very person whom the witness Renna had with such confidence declared having seen pass his bar on that tragic afternoon. The photographs were attached by the court as documentary evidence.

Public Prosecutor Cervellati was forced to re-examine the witness with a view to explaining the details of his deposition. The witness explained that he had not seen the accused since the year before, when the events took place, that he was certain about his statements and had not recognized the accused in the photos because it was so long ago and the photographs were badly printed. The latter were, in fact, imperfectly reproduced colour photocopies.

The re-examination conducted by the public prosecutor to some extent repaired the damage, but it is unquestionable that in the course of this trial Avvocato Guerrieri has scored several points in his favour in what is undoubtedly a very difficult trial for the defence.

Interrogated before the bar owner were the police doctor and Sergeant-Major Lorusso, the detective who conducted the inquiries. The cross-examination of Lorusso also had its tense moments, when the defence hinted at shortcomings and oversights in the course of the searches carried out at the lodgings of the Senegalese.

The trial continues tomorrow with the parents and grandparents of the little boy. Fixed for next Monday is the interrogation of the accused and then, except in the event of eventual applications to produce fresh evidence, the trial will proceed to the closing argument.

But in this case it was different. I was the protagonist of the whole article.

When had they taken that photo? It wasn’t very recent, perhaps a couple of years old, but I couldn’t remember the occasion. I looked fairly good in it, even though, all told, I thought I looked better in real life.

After a second or two of such reflections I felt a complete idiot, put down the paper and turned to Abdou.

He was watching me. From his expression it was clear that now he was convinced that we would pull it off. He had read the paper and was now thinking that perhaps he had been lucky, that he was in the hands of the right lawyer. I asked myself whether I had better tell him that despite the fact that things had gone well in the hearing, the odds were still heavily against us. I concluded that there was no reason to do so. I therefore only nodded and gave a slight shrug. It could mean anything or nothing.

“Right, Abdou. We must now put our minds to the next hearing. Your interrogation.”

He nodded and said nothing. He was attentive but it was not up to him to talk. It was up to me.

“I am now going to tell you how the thing works, and how you must behave. If something I say is not clear to you, please interrupt me and tell me so at once.”

Another nod. “Of course.”

“You will first be examined by the public prosecutor. While he is asking you questions, look him in the face. Attentively, not with an air of challenge. Do not answer until he has finished the question. When he has finished, turn towards the bench and speak to the court. Never get into an argument with the public prosecutor. Is that clear?”

“When the prosecutor is speaking I look at him, when I am speaking I look at the judges.”

“OK. Obviously the same thing holds true when you are questioned by the counsel for the civil party, or when I question you myself. You must make it clear to the court that you are listening to the questions before answering them. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Wait for the questions to end before answering. Especially when I am doing the questioning. We must not seem to be putting on an act, with every question and answer memorized. You see what I’m trying to say?”

“It must not seem like an act between us two.”

“OK. Don’t sit on the edge of your chair. Sit well back. Like this.” I showed him how. “But don’t sit like this.” And I showed him again, slouching back, sprawling, knees crossed and so on.

“The idea’s clear enough, isn’t it? You mustn’t give the impression of wanting to run away, by sitting on the edge of your chair, but nor must you give the impression of being too relaxed. We’ll be talking about your life, the fact that you might go to prison for a great many years, and so you can’t be relaxed. If you seem relaxed, it means you’re putting it on and they will realize that. Maybe unconsciously, but realize it they will. You follow me?”

“Yes.”

“When you don’t understand a question, or even if you are unsure of having understood it, don’t try to answer. Whoever has put the question, ask him to repeat it.”

“Very good.”

“Then, before going on would you like to repeat to me what I’ve said so far?”

“I must look in the face whoever is asking me questions. When the question is finished, I turn, look at the court and answer. If I don’t understand a question, I must ask for it to be repeated, please. I must sit like this.”

He sat as I had told him to. I smiled and nodded. He didn’t need things said twice.

At that point I delved into my briefcase and took out the copy of his interrogation by the public prosecutor and various other papers. Having made clear how he must conduct himself, we now had to talk about what he would have to say, of how he was to explain what he had already said, and of the applications for additional evidence that I would have to put forward after his interrogation.

I was in the prison until three o’clock, with the heat becoming more and more insufferable. When we shook hands at the moment of parting, I felt we had really done everything we could.

I went home, had a shower, put on light trousers and a sweater. I made a salad, ate it, and smoked a couple of cigarettes, seated in an armchair and drinking a whizzed-up American coffee. At about half-past four I started for the office. I tried to buzz Margherita from the front door but she wasn’t at home. I was disappointed, but thought I would ring her later, when I’d finished work.

At the office I saw a few clients, had a visit from my accountant, got through the correspondence, and having done that told Maria Teresa that she could pack up early for the day. I looked down at a sheet of paper on the desk before me. When I looked up again she was still there. I regarded her with a slightly questioning smile. She was not a beautiful girl, but she had lovely blue eyes, intelligent and humorous. She had been working for me for four years and in the meantime was studying for a law degree. She wanted to be a magistrate.

“Is there something?” I asked, still with that smile.

For her part, she seemed to be searching for words.

“I wanted to tell you that I’m glad ... I’m glad that you’re better. I’ve been very ... very worried.”

I was dumbstruck. Never since we had known one another had we so much as hinted at personal matters. After four years I didn’t know who she really was, that girl, whether she had a boyfriend, what she thought and so on. I was simply not expecting her to say anything of that sort, even though I well knew that she realized what had happened to me. It was she who spoke again.

“I would have liked to do something to help you, when you were so ill, but you were so withdrawn. I was worried, I thought it might come to a bad end.”

“Bad end?”

“Yes, don’t laugh. I thought of people who commit suicide and then their friends and acquaintances say they were depressed, for some time they had been so changed, and things of that sort ...”

“You thought I might kill myself?”

“Yes. Then these last months things have begun going better and I’ve been glad. Now they’re going much better and I wanted to tell you. That I’m glad.”

I didn’t know what to say. The things that came to my lips were all banalities, and I didn’t want to utter banalities. Whole worlds pass close by us and we don’t notice. I was moved.

“Thank you,” was all I said. Then I quickly got up, circled the desk and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She blushed, just a little.

“So ... see you Monday.”

“Yes, Monday. Thank you, Maria Teresa.”

I tried calling Margherita on her mobile but it was off or didn’t make the connection. I tried calling her on the intercom but she wasn’t at home. I was disappointed, but only slightly.

I wondered what to do and came up with an answer at once. I went upstairs, packed a small bag, took a few books, got into the car and headed south. I was off to the sea.

I reached Santa Maria di Leuca around eleven and took a room in a small pensione right on the seafront. I had dinner and then went for a long walk up and down the front, sitting on a bench every so often to smoke a cigarette, watching the people and enjoying the cool night air. About half-past one I went to bed. I fell asleep at once, waking at nine o’clock on the Saturday. I couldn’t remember when I had last slept so soundly. Perhaps when I was twenty or a little more.

Those two days were nothing but bathing, sun, eating, reading, sleeping and watching people. Scarcely a single thought. I watched the people on the beach, in the restaurants, and in the evening in the streets. I spent hours just watching people, without worrying that they were watching me too and might be speculating about me in one way or another. On Saturday morning on the beach I made friends with a woman from Lecce, about sixty-five and somewhat fat, in a blue flowered bathing costume, fortunately one-piece. She was nice, she told me about her husband, who had died three years before, and how she had been in a really bad way for five or six months and thought that her life was over because they had been married when she was twenty-two and she had never been with another man. Then she had begun to think that perhaps her life was not over, and that there were a few things she had always wanted to do but for one reason or another had always put off doing. So she started going to origami classes, which was one of those things she had always wanted to do, because when she was little her grandmother used to make her the loveliest toys by folding, cutting and colouring paper. Her grandmother had promised to teach her when she was bigger. But her grandmother had died when she was seven and hadn’t been able to teach her. So she had learned origami and become very good at it – she showed me so by making a penguin, a seal and even a reindeer before my very eyes – and she’d taken a fancy to doing other things too, and had done them. For example, coming to the seaside on her own, or travelling, since luckily she didn’t have money troubles and so forth. And you know, young man, when you have a lot of things to do, you haven’t got time to think that your life is over, or how long you’ve got left, or that you’re going to die and all that. You’ll die anyway, so ... While she was saying all this she started worrying in case I got sunburnt and handed me a bottle of lotion, advising me to put some on. I did so, and just as well, because the sun was scorching and I’d certainly have got burnt, spending all day on the beach. She wanted to know about me, and I surprised myself by telling her about my troubles, something I’d never done with anyone. Apart from the bearded psychiatrist, and even that with scant success. She listened without comment, and this pleased me too.

The next evening after supper I went to a kind of piano bar and stayed there listening to music until late. I made friends with the waiter, who was studying physics and worked weekends to make a little money. He told me that there were two girls at a nearby table, in a dark corner, and they had asked who I was. The student told me they were pretty and, if I wanted, he would take them a message. He said it pleasantly enough, not vulgarly. I said thanks, but no, perhaps some other time, and he looked rather surprised. I tipped him when I left. Maybe he thought I fancied men, but I didn’t care.

That night too I slept like a log and woke up relaxed and happy. I spent the Sunday on the beach reading, jumping into the water, and smearing myself with the lotion the origami lady had given me.

At seven, with the sun still warm, I had a last dip, went by the pensione to pick up my bag and headed back to Bari.

I was a few miles from home when the mobile buried in my bag gave the sound it makes on receiving a message. I was curious, because it was a long time since I’d received any. So I pulled in to a service station, got out the phone and tried hard to remember how to read them. After a while I succeeded. The message read: It would take too long to explain now. So don’t try to understand. But I needed to tell you, now, that meeting you has been one of the most wonderful things that has ever happened to me. M.

I was stupefied for a moment or two, staring at those words, then I set off again for home. A few minutes later I felt like switching off the air-conditioning and lowering the windows. The mistral was getting up, sweeping the damp air before it.

I don’t know if it was the wind that gave me the shivers on my skin, still warm from the sun, as I drove homewards with the windows down. From the loudspeakers came the voice of Rod Stewart singing “I Don’t Want to Talk about It” and I was thinking about the words of that message, and many another thing besides.

I don’t know if it was the wind that gave me those shivers on my skin.