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reason he couldn’t sleep was because of his remorse over killing a sick woman who might have lived several more years. But it was idiotic to think that Signora Maldrigati could have lived for more than a month or two at the most, it was only at the trial that anyone had thought of saying that. The reason he couldn’t sleep was simply that he didn’t like the world around him any more. Even a hen can find it hard to sleep in a henhouse it isn’t really happy about.
    It was only four, but the wave started to recede inside him, maybe the usual nocturnal torture was coming to an end. A little earlier, he had heard a noise, it might have been a door being closed slowly, or a window. Michelangelo’s David was probably also having difficulty sleeping: the world he was in couldn’t be too pleasant either. Duca got up to fetch a book. He chose one at random, which turned out to be thehistory of the republic of Salò, and equally at random he read a memo from Buffarini to Mussolini: the enthusiasm of the Italian people for the war had been cooling rapidly since Stalingrad and the allied landings in Morocco, the Duce had to remember that the spirit of the population was quite different from the days of the Empire. Even their hostility towards their German comrades was increasing …
    He closed the book abruptly, got up, and put it back on the shelf. At that moment there was something he didn’t like in the house, any more than he liked the streak of grey in the dawn sky. He left the room, as if he already knew what it was that he didn’t like, even though he didn’t, and knocked at the door of the next room, Davide’s room.
    No answer. He tried to turn the handle: the door was locked. All at once, he realised what had happened and pounded with his fist, three or four times. ‘Open up, or I’ll knock the door down.’
    No sound, for a moment, he pounded again, more loudly, and as he pounded the key turned in the lock and the door opened. It was as he had feared. With his right hand Davide was holding a handkerchief over his left wrist, the handkerchief was already soaked with blood, it was trickling down. The most distressing way to die.
    Duca didn’t say anything, just pushed Davide into the bathroom. There was a first aid case on the wall which, quite unusually, contained everything he needed. With his huge arm stretched over the wash basin, Davide let him do whatever he wanted. He had known what he was doing when he slit his wrist, had known what he was aiming for: the greatestloss of blood with the smallest cut. That made it easier for Duca to stitch and dress the wound, and less than half an hour later the would-be suicide was lying on his bed. The cuff of his shirt hid most of the bandage. He hadn’t said a word so far and, lying like that on the bed, still wasn’t saying anything.
    Duca hadn’t said a word either. Not one. As soon as he had put him back on the bed he looked for the stash of whisky. It was child’s play: the only place a person as tall as Davide Auseri could hide a bottle was on top of the wardrobe; by standing on tiptoe he managed to reach that obvious hiding place and took down the bottle. He laughed nervously to himself: he wasn’t much shorter than Davide.
    He started to drink from the bottle: one sip, then a breath, another longer sip, another breath, the third sip, enough now. He needed it, he was still frozen with terror, and even the whisky didn’t warm him up very much. He put the bottle back on top of the wardrobe, sat down on Davide’s bed and looked at him. His expression was normal, he hadn’t cried, he wasn’t pale, the skin of his face was dry. That was the terrible thing about it: he had decided quite calmly and lucidly that he wanted to die. At the age of twenty-two.
    ‘Don’t you ever think of other people?’ Duca asked. He looked at the window: the square of sky was milky with dawn. No answer. ‘No, I’m not talking about your father, the grief you’d have given your