“Signorina.” The concierge called me to the desk. He turned from the pigeonholes behind him and held out an envelope. Immediately I recognised the calligraphy. The muscles in my legs felt as though they were melting. Madeleine was holding the elevator door. She looked from my face to the envelope.
“Another one!”
We rode the three floors in silence. Our room seemed indifferent to our return, though it had now taken on a clinical smell. We sat, side by side on the closer bed and Madeleine watched as my trembling fingers released the note.
“What sort of a note is that?” she whispered, “It looks like a child’s written it.”
The content of the letter was made up of symbols – straight and waving lines. Madeleine took it from me. “Whoever’s writing these, you’d think they’d include a translati
