He bent over and looked under the armoire, lifted the brick, and grabbed the book. From the kitchen he heard the clattering of pots and pans; his tata would never find his hiding place, he thought to himself. She was too old to bend over like that, at her age. He shot another glance across the street, but he could only make out the light: the rain was drumming down too hard.
He went over to his little writing desk and sat down, turning on the lamp. He put the book on the table in front of him, remembering the flush of shame in the bookstore when he’d told the clerk the title: Il moderno segretario galante. A helpful guide to writing modern love letters.
The initiative, he thought: he had to take the initiative. He took a deep sigh: the man who saw dead people, and felt their furious pain on his flesh without blinking an eye, was now quite simply terrified.
He took a sheet of paper and dipped his pen in the ink: Gentile Signorina, he wrote.
Then he stopped, with his pen in hand. And he sat there, enchanted by the sight of the large raindrops streaking the glass.