How is it that I'm here? I'll tell you, but first let's go in. Can't you see? It's raining."

And he coaxed me into the tavern. There, he forced me to drink and drink again, certainly with the intention of getting me drunk. I was so astonished and dismayed that I was unable to put up a struggle. I don't drink wine, and yet I drank I no longer recall how much of it. I remember a suffocating cloud of smoke, the acrid stench of wine, the dull clatter of dishes, the hot and heavy smell of the kitchen, and the subdued mumbling of hoarse voices. Hunched over-- almost as if wanting to steal each other's breath, two old men were playing cards nearby, amid the angry or approving grunts of the spectators who crowded at their backs, absorbed in the game. A lamp, hanging from the low ceiling, diffused its yellow light through the dense cloud. But what astonished me more was seeing that, among the many people there, no one suspected that someone no longer living was in there. And looking now at one person, now at another, I felt the temptation to point to my companion and say: "This fellow is a dead man!" But then, almost as if he had read this temptation on my lips, Jacopo Sturzi, his shoulders propped against the wall and his chin on his breast, smiled without taking his eyes off me. His eyes were inflamed and full of tears! He continued looking at me, even as he drank. All of a sudden he stirred and began to speak to me in a low voice. My head was already spinning from the effect of the wine, but those strange words of his about matters of life and death made it spin even more. He noticed that and, laughing, concluded:

"They're not matters for you. Let's talk about something else. Tuda?"

"Tuda?" I uttered. "Don't you know? It's all over..."

He nodded his head affirmatively several times but then instead said:

"I didn't know that, but you did well in breaking off the relationship. Tell me, it was on account of her mother, right? My wife, Amalia Noce, is the worst sort of creature! She's like all the Noces! Listen, I..."

He took off his hat and put it on the little table. Then, slapping his high forehead with his hand, and winking, he exclaimed:

"Twice, the first time in 1860, and then in '75. And you must realize that she was no longer fresh, though still quite beautiful. But I can't complain about this any longer. I forgave her and that's that. My son — may I call you that? — my son, believe me, I began to breathe only the moment after I had died. In fact, do you think I still look after them? No, neither the mother nor the daughter. I don't even look after the daughter, because of her mother. I want to tell you everything. I know how they live. Listen, I could do as many others do in my state. From time to time I could go to their home, unseen by them, and secretly pilfer a little money. But I don't.