I’d stopped in front of the entrance to the property and looked at the villa through the black bars of the gate. The wind seemed to have died down now and the terrace in front of me was deserted. I’d immediately spotted the old gray Mercedes on the little gravel path leading to the garage, and there was no more doubt in my mind that Biaggi was in the village, because the car had been parked there the first time I’d come and I’d also seen it on the village square the morning I discovered the dead cat in the port. Now here it was again, parked beside a tree in the darkness of the driveway, and Biaggi was hiding in all likelihood, how else to explain the fact that I hadn’t run into him in the village since I’d arrived? Before moving on I slipped my hand mechanically into the mailbox and discovered that it was empty. I was standing in front of the gate, apparently alone on the road, and was just wondering if someone could have followed me at a distance from the hotel when I saw a set of car lights coming down the road toward the Biaggis’ house. I took a quick look around for a place to hide and, pushing on the gate, I noticed that the chain that kept it closed was simply wound around the bars and that a slight push had been enough to open it somewhat. Hurriedly I unwound the chain and entered the property. The car slowed down a bit as it approached the house, and I squatted on the gravel not moving a muscle. I heard the sound of its motor coming nearer, and after a moment two yellow headlights suddenly loomed in front of me in the darkness, lighting up the garden for an instant while the car, a light-colored Volkswagen, drove past the gate without stopping. Blinded by the lights, I didn’t manage to see who was inside, and I remained for a moment crouching in the shadows, listening to the sound of the Volkswagen as it drove off, heading — it seemed to me but I couldn’t be sure — down toward the port.
It was only then, once silence had returned to the garden, that I remembered that the first time I’d taken the mail from the Biaggis’ mailbox I’d left two letters inside, junk mail or bank statements no doubt. Now, however, those two letters were gone. I walked through the garden over to the house and looked at the umbrella lying on the terrace with its pole still inserted in a concrete base. I wondered how the wind could have knocked over such a heavy garden umbrella while nothing else seemed to have moved on the terrace, neither the earthenware jars on either side of the bay window, nor the garden furniture arranged in the darkness a little farther off. There wasn’t a sound in the garden, and the grounds around the villa were strewn with dead leaves. Looking up at the façade I noticed that one of the shutters on the second floor wasn’t quite closed, and that there was a thin gap between the window and the wall. The hook of the shutter was unclasped and hung against the wall. And Biaggi was hidden there in the shadows, it seemed to me, watching every move I made from the upstairs window.
After remaining undecided on the terrace for quite some time, practically immobile and with my eyes fixed on the shutter, I slowly approached one of the earthenware jars whose silhouette stood out in the shadows. Sticking my hand inside it I felt around for the keys to the garage, remembering that that was where the Biaggis left them when they went away. And in fact I did find them there under a rock, two small metal keys which I took out of a little plastic bag. I’d made up my mind to enter the Biaggis’ house, no more afraid of coming face to face with Biaggi than I already was, knowing he could be watching my every move. I approached the garage door and, taking a last glance at the deserted garden stretching out in the darkness, I inserted the smallest key into the keyhole, lifted the garage door very softly, and slipped silently into the house.
The garage walls were hardly visible in the dark, and a small boat lay overturned on the ground. Various objects were stored along the walls, fishing rods and jerry cans containing oil and gas, and two thick wooden oars lay side by side on the floor. Slowly I advanced through a little metal door and down two steps into a very dark, low-ceilinged cellar, where the dim contours of an almost empty wine rack appeared beside a large shelf filled with cleaning products. My eyes were starting to grow accustomed to the darkness, and I left the cellar and moved on toward the kitchen. Everything was silent there, perfectly neat and tidy, there was no trace of dishes beside the sink and a pile of ironed dishtowels lay beside the stove. Silently I progressed through the ground floor of the house. The shutters were closed all around me and from inside the villa they looked very black behind the bare windowpanes. When I arrived at the little entranceway at the front door I hesitated for a moment at the bottom of the stairs. There still wasn’t a sound in the house, and just across from me, beside a coatrack on which hung the disquieting forms of an overcoat and two raincoats, was a large wooden mirror whose surface was so dark that although I was less than a couple of yards away I couldn’t see the slightest trace of my reflection, just the dense, utter darkness of the deserted entrance.
After hesitating for a moment I went into the living room and, passing in front of the large stone fireplace that loomed in the darkness behind the leather sofa, I crossed the room noiselessly and pushed open the door to Biaggi’s study. That was where he normally worked, but I saw right away that his typewriter wasn’t on his desk. Some papers and a few small objects lay on the mantelpiece, a stapler, an ashtray, two or three rolls of film, and as I moved further into the room I noticed two letters on the desk. Picking them up I saw it was the two letters I’d left in the mailbox a few days earlier. I couldn’t be entirely sure because I hadn’t looked at them closely enough the first time I’d had them in my hands, but they were certainly the same kind of letters, two long rectangular envelopes with transparent windows for the name and address, both addressed to Biaggi, Paul Biaggi. And it was then that I thought I heard a sound in the house, an imperceptible creaking coming from upstairs. I listened attentively but couldn’t hear a thing, neither upstairs nor anywhere else, just the regular distant hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. I immediately left the study and went back to the front entrance, flattening myself against the wall. The staircase rose in front of me in the darkness, and I could just make out the corridor at the top of the stairs where Biaggi was standing immobile, perhaps, observing me from the shadows of the hallway on the second floor.
I went over to the stairway and started up. I walked up slowly, with one hand on the rail and both eyes focused straight ahead. When I got to the top I hesitated for a moment, then walked soundlessly down the hallway to the door of the first room, which I slowly opened. There was no one inside, and no one seemed to have slept there for a long time because the mattress was bare, with two large blankets folded on top. Leaving the room I saw that the door to the Biaggis’ bedroom was slightly ajar at the far end of the corridor. Had it already been open when I came up the stairs? Had someone just opened it? I was less than four yards from the door and didn’t move a muscle. Nothing could be heard from behind the door, and pushing it open silently I saw that the bedroom was perfectly empty in the darkness. The shutters weren’t entirely closed and a ray of moonlight entered the room through the small gap between the window and the wall. I walked over to the window, and the room was entirely silent all around me, dimly bathed in a soft glimmer of moonlight that enveloped the walls and reflected dully off the parquet floor. The bed was made and nothing so much as hinted that someone had been there recently, no clothes hung over the chairs, no newspapers lay on the bedside tables. There was no one upstairs, the Biaggis’ house was empty it seemed.