It was a little after eight o’clock when I went down to dinner after putting my son to bed, and there was no one in the dining room when I went in except for the young woman I’d seen a little earlier in the television room, dining alone near the window. She was wearing a suede jacket with a black blouse and little horn-rimmed glasses, and it was only when I went to sit down that I noticed a camera on the table beside her, the same Nikon I’d seen that morning in the last room I’d visited. We were the only two in the dining room, separated by a row of unoccupied tables, and, even if we immediately glanced away each time our looks crossed, I observed her surreptitiously throughout the meal. Finally she was the first one to get up and leave, wishing me goodnight with a slight German accent, and I watched her leave the room with the camera in her hand. It was night outside and I was now alone in the dining room. The leaves of the tamaris swayed very slowly on the deserted terrace outside, and I drank my coffee thinking that the Biaggis must be home by now and that I’d go back out in a little while to pay them a visit.
Back in my room I stood at the window, pulling back the curtain slightly to look outside. I’d left the light off so as not to wake my son, and the only light in the dimness came from the weak bulb over the washbasin that isolated one corner of the room in a yellowish patch of light. There wasn’t a sound in the village, and I looked out at the deserted road that led up toward the Biaggis’ house. Across from the hotel I could see the lone donkey in the bluish depths of the abandoned lot, lying in the shadows of the enclosure whose rocky surface was lit by the moon. I stood at the window without moving, my body hidden by the curtains that I’d only opened a crack to look outside, and I wondered if someone standing outside might think there was anyone in the room.
The Biaggis must certainly have returned home by now, and as time went on and I stood there at the window putting off the moment when I went to see them, I started to think that if tonight as well it was so difficult for me to take what seemed like such a simple decision as dropping in on some friends to say I was staying in the village, it was basically due to the reticence I’d felt at visiting them on the first day, a reticence that I still hadn’t been able to shed in fact, and which, far from having abated with time, had only grown as the days went by, to the point where ever since I’d taken the liberty of removing the letters from their mailbox this had hobbled me entirely and made it all the more difficult for me to go see them. Nevertheless I went and took out a clean shirt from my travel bag and changed silently in the dim light. Then, slowly, I put on a tie and tied it carefully around my neck. There was almost no light in the room, and, after having put on my jacket and coat, I went over to the washbasin and took a quick look in the mirror. I was standing very close to the glass in a dark coat and tie, my face almost pressed up against my reflection. My eyes looked bluish-green and slightly baggy in the dim light, but what I saw above all was the terribly worried look on my face. And yet all I was looking at was my own reflection, which was no doubt not particularly menacing at that, nevertheless the face looking back at me in the feeble light bore a terribly worried expression, as if it was myself I mistrusted, as if in fact I was the one I was afraid of — whereupon I crossed the room and went out.
Everything was silent outside when I left the hotel, and the sign on the roof was still illuminated. The neon lights bathed the road and trees in a faint blue glimmer, and I saw that two cars were parked in front of the hotel. I wondered who they could belong to, and climbed over the little chain-link gate onto the terrace for a moment. There wasn’t a sound all around, and I stood in the shadows looking into the dining room where the light was still on. The dinner service was almost over and there was only one couple still sitting at a table, drinking their coffee in front of the sliding window. The man had his back to me, barely a couple of yards away. I couldn’t see his face, just the back of his neck and a hint of his profile when he moved his head. Suddenly I reeled back when the owner came into view on the other side of the room. Had he had time to distinguish my silhouette in the night? Had he realized I was just outside the window? I left the terrace immediately and walked off down the road without turning around. I was heading toward the Biaggis’ house, and I’d almost arrived at the top of the cliff by now. The wind was blowing heavily, and I continued to walk as the lighthouse beam turned regularly over the surface of the water. I didn’t have any idea what I’d say to the Biaggis when I got there, and I knew full well they’d probably be surprised to find me paying them a nighttime visit like that, nevertheless I continued up the road toward their place. Soon the road stopped winding along the cliff and entered a very dense, very dark grove of trees, and after following the wall of the property for ten or so yards I stopped in front of the Biaggis’ gate. I couldn’t hear a sound from within, everything was perfectly still around the house. Apparently the Biaggis hadn’t come home yet because the car was nowhere in sight. I stood on the side of the road and looked at the mailbox hanging in the dusk. When they got back the Biaggis would find the mail I’d returned that morning, I thought, and, going up to the gate, I slipped my hand into the mailbox but felt nothing under my fingers — the letters were gone.
The moon cast a dim light over the park on the Biaggis’ property and all of the shutters were closed along the front wall, downstairs and upstairs, and the metal blind over the bay window was rolled down. Could it be that the Biaggis were home nonetheless, asleep in the bedroom upstairs? I unwound the chain from the door and entered the property. Hardly anything had changed around the villa since I’d been there last, dead leaves still lay all over the garden, but I noticed that the old umbrella had been righted and now stood erect in front of the house. Its metal stays were spread skyward, and attached to them were several ripped strips of cloth. I walked noiselessly onto the terrace and along the metal blind of the bay window over to the front door. No lights were visible inside the house, and after taking one last peek through the shutters to see if I could see anything inside, I came back to the front entrance and rang the doorbell. I had rung the doorbell of the Biaggis’ house and didn’t move, standing there in the dim light waiting for someone to open the door. Could it be no one was at home? I rang a second time, and, still not getting any response, I decided to go in and walked over to the earthenware jar to get the keys to the garage.
I’d gone inside the villa, and made my way slowly through the ground floor trying to get my bearings in the darkness. Anyone home? I called out. Stopping at the living room door I saw the stone fireplace at the other end of the room, barely distinguishable beside the dark shapes of three leather armchairs around a coffee table. There wasn’t a sound in the room, and I walked slowly over to Biaggi’s study and softly opened the door. I felt around for the light switch and, not finding it, I lit my lighter and saw in the glow of the flame that the letters were lying on the desk. There they were, the three letters I’d returned that morning, lying side by side on Biaggi’s desk. So someone was in the house right now, someone who knew I was there? I left the room immediately and, walking past the large wooden mirror in the entrance, I saw a furtive silhouette pass by in the blackness, dressed in a dark coat and tie.
The night sky was immense and dark, and several long black clouds slid slowly across the halo of the moon. I’d gone upstairs to the Biaggis’ bedroom, and as no one was there I’d gone over to the window and opened the shutters. It seemed I was all alone in the house, and I stood there at the window of the Biaggis’ bedroom. The garden in front of me was silent, and from time to time the long luminous beam from the lighthouse on Sasuelo Island whisked across the sky behind the treetops. The gates to the property were dimly lit by the moon at the end of the driveway, and I thought that Biaggi — because Biaggi must have known I was in the house — would no doubt not be long in returning, and that any minute now I would see the old gray Mercedes pull up in the night in front of the gate, with its motor running and headlights blazing, lighting up the irregular stones of the wall around the property. I would still be standing at the window of the room and I’d see Biaggi get out to open the gate. I wouldn’t move and I’d watch as he got back into the car and, when the old gray Mercedes entered the park, Biaggi would suddenly see my silhouette in a dark coat and tie standing at his bedroom window in front of him in the night.