I’ve decided to go back to the place where the tragedy took place. Three days have passed. I want to take a look around, interview some of the neighbors. I leave the car in Via Battisti. Outside the bar there is the usual old lady begging. She starts at five and finishes at eight, like the shops. She has two long braids and a colored band on her forehead. She looks like a squaw. She is crouched on the ground and has a cardboard box in her lap. Every time I pass by I give her a coin. She smiles in a friendly way, but I have the impression that she does not really recognize me. She picks up a cigarette butt from the ground, lights it and smokes.
Via Santa Caterina is deserted. There is no air of tragedy. The bells ring and their echo mixes with the hiss of the wind between the walls of t
