CHAPTER XI
THE DEATH OF THE CAT
Night time. Franco was at the peak of concentration, he had his arms stretched over the typewriter and continued to type as if he were in the grip of a raptus.
He kept his wrists stiff and moved his fingers as he looked straight at the piece of paper in front of him; he didn’t even need to look for the keys now.
He merely observed the words that appeared on the paper one after the other as if by magic, stopping from time to time only to pass a forearm across his brow drenched in sweat.
He was convinced that he would win, that he would soon be able, at last, to turn the story in the direction he wanted.
He was certain that the story he was writing would stop going where it wanted, doing its own thing, that he would finally be able to tame it and with it
