Tuesday, 15 August 1916
Nico, in his short long-johns and vest, opened the door, still in the middle of a protracted yawn.
‘I’ll give you a spare key. You have mixed up day with night’.
Mario went past him muted, dropped on the first chair in the balcony and thrust his head in his two hands.
‘I’ll just make some coffee…’
Nico murmured. When he was back, he was in his pants. He left the coffees on the table and started caressing his flowers.
‘Gravel. I should have put more gravel in the pots. The water goes astray’.
He grabbed the metal watering can. It was empty. He shook it, as if he would get an extra drop this way.
‘They cut the water supply again, those darn French. They draw all of it for their camps. They left nothing for us. They have taken everything. The telegram offices,
