I said nothing. I went away.

I still remember the impression that nature's sudden spectacle made on me that night. Nature seemed to be almost completely in flight with the howling vehemence of the wind. Infinite formations of rifted clouds fled with desperate fury through the sky and seemed to drag along the moon, pale from consternation. The trees twisted and turned, rustling, creaking, and trembling ceaselessly, as if they were about to uproot themselves and flee, way, way over there, where the wind was bringing the clouds to a stormy encounter.

As I left the villa, my spirit, completely locked in the grief of death, suddenly opened up, as if the grief itself had opened up in the presence of that night. I felt that there was another immense sorrow in that mysterious sky, in those rifted, scrambling clouds; another arcane sorrow in the air, furious and howling in that flight. And, since the mute trees shook in that manner, an unknown spasm certainly must have been present within them. All of sudden, I heard a sob, almost a bubble of frightening light in that sea of darkness: a screech of a scops owl down in the valley; and in the distance, cries of terror: crickets chirping long and loudly over there, towards the hill.

Assailed by the wind, I sought refuge among the trees. At a certain point, I don't know why, I turned to look towards the little villa, whose other side was now in view. After looking for quite a while, I suddenly leaned forward to ascertain in the darkness whether what I thought I saw was real. Near the low window of the room where Mirina had retreated to cry over her sister's death, what seemed like a shadow was moving. Could that shadow have been just an optical illusion? I rubbed my eyes so hard that for an instant, I could no longer make anything out, as if an even greater darkness had descended around me to prevent me not from seeing, but from believing what I thought I had seen. A shadow gesticulating? The shadow of a tree shaken by the wind?

That's how far I was from the suspicion that my wife was betraying me.

Really, I don't believe I'm presuming too much in thinking that, on such a night, anybody would be far from suspecting such a thing, and that perhaps anybody, like me when I noticed that the shadow was actually a man in the flesh, would have believed that he was a thief in the night and, like me, would have secretly run off to get a shotgun to frighten him, and would have discharged it in the air.

What actually happened; however, is that when I discovered what sort of thief he was, I didn't shoot him, nor did I shoot in the air.

Lying in wait there, hunched at the corner of the villa, quite close to the first window, where they were conversing, assailed by continuous shivers as sharp as razor-slashes in my back, I tried hard to hear what they were saying. I heard only my wife, who was frightened by the man's incredible audacity. She was urging him to leave. He, too, was talking, but in such a low voice and so rapidly that not only did I not succeed in understanding his words, but I was also unable to recognize him as yet from the sound of his voice.

"Get out of here. Get out of here," she insisted. And as the tears rolled down her cheeks, she added words that petrified me all the more. I caught a glimpse of the whole picture! He had come, that stormy night, to ask about the sick woman. And she told him: "We killed her." Ah, so Amalia had known about the betrayal and found out about it before I did?

"Blame? Blame? No!" he said all of a sudden in a loud frenzied tone.

Vardi! Him, Cesare Vardi, my neighbor! I recognized him, I saw him in his voice: stocky and solid, as if nourished by earth, sun, and clean air.

Immediately thereafter, I heard the shutters bang violently shut, as if the wind had helped her hands. Then I heard him leaving. I didn't move from the position I had assumed. Holding my breath, I continued listening to the sounds of his footsteps, which were much slower than my heartbeat. Then I got up, still shuddering from the effects of my initial shock, and then what I had seen and heard, almost no longer seemed true.

Is it possible? Is it possible? I asked myself, wandering again through the countryside, among the trees, as if inebriated. A muted, continuous whimpering issued from my throat, mingling with the violent rustling of the leaves, as if my body, having been wounded, was suffering on its own, while my soul, upset and amazed, paid no attention to it.

"Is it possible?"

Finally I heard that whimpering sound coming from me, and panting heavily, I stopped. I took a strong hold of each shoulder with both of my hands, crossing my arms on my breast as if to brace myself, and I sat down on the ground. I then burst out sobbing desperately. I cried and cried. Then, worn out but relieved by my tears, I began to take courage.

But I'll just tell you what I did after having thought at length. It'll be better that way.