cracked up, as though to reassure themselves that such conditions were invariably obvious and predictable, and so their own lack of symptoms meant that their future sanity was not in question.
Zen sat up and refocused his eyes on the seat opposite. For a moment, the glass had seemed to display two faces: his own, and – some distance behind and to one side – that of a boy about five years old. Only his face, of extraordinary beauty, was visible, the dark eyes fixed on Zen with a look of love and reproach.
‘Palazzuole!’
Zen swivelled round. The uniformed man was standing in the doorway at the end of the carriage.
‘Palazzuole,’ he repeated, as the brakes squealed beneath them.
Zen was about to say that he didn’t have a ticket, but the guard had already disappeared. The train jerked to a halt, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Zen walked hastily to the end of the carriage and stepped down. The train revved up and sidled away, leaving him in total darkness. Almost total, rather, for once his eyes had adjusted, he realized that he could just make out his surroundings by the faint suggestion of light which now tinted the sky, diffused down through a thick layer of mist. The station building was shuttered and obviously long disused. In faded black paint on the cracked and falling plaster he could just make out the letters PAL ZUO E and the information that he was currently 243 metres above mean sea level.
He walked past the station building into the gravel-covered area behind, and along a short driveway leading to a dirt road which crossed the tracks at a slight angle. Here he got out the map and his cigarette lighter, and determined that the village lay east of the railway station which nominally served it. He turned right on to the narrow road, towards the pallid glow which was slowly hollowing out the night.
There was just enough light to distinguish the crushed gravel and glossy puddles of the unpaved strada bianca from the ditches to either side. Zen lit a cigarette and walked on through the damp, clinging mist, up the slight incline of the road which crossed the river and the railway. As he climbed out of the valley, the visibility steadily improved. Now he could see that the fields had recently been ploughed and that the turned earth was silvery with dew. The exercise and the fresh air exhilarated him.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Somewhere else, a church bell began to toll monotonously, summoning the faithful to early mass. By now the light clearly had the upper hand over the mist and the darkness. Every surface glistened and gleamed with moisture, as though it had just been freshly created. As imperceptibly as the dawn itself, the incline of the road increased until he found himself ascending a steep hill which forced the road to twist and turn. Stopping to catch his breath, Zen noticed lights behind him and heard the low growl of a motor.
The vehicle – a red Fiat pick-up truck – neared rapidly, gobbling up the road it had taken Zen so long to traverse on foot. He stepped on to the verge to let it pass, but the truck pulled to a stop and a window was rolled down.
‘ Buon giorno ,’ said the driver.
Zen returned the greeting.
‘Get in.’
The tone was peremptory. After a moment’s hesitation, Zen walked around the truck and climbed into the passenger seat, which he found himself sharing with a small black-and-white dog. The cab reeked of a powerful odour to which he would not have been able, a few days before, to put a name, but which he could still smell faintly on his own skin.
‘Going to the village?’ asked the driver, restarting the truck. Glancing at the dog, which was whining nervously, he snapped, ‘Quiet, Anna!’
‘I’m going to Palazzuole,’ said Zen.
‘Did your car break down?’
‘No, I came on the train.’
The driver laughed humourlessly.
‘Probably the first passenger they’ve had all year.’
Zen studied the man’s face as he negotiated the
Zen sat up and refocused his eyes on the seat opposite. For a moment, the glass had seemed to display two faces: his own, and – some distance behind and to one side – that of a boy about five years old. Only his face, of extraordinary beauty, was visible, the dark eyes fixed on Zen with a look of love and reproach.
‘Palazzuole!’
Zen swivelled round. The uniformed man was standing in the doorway at the end of the carriage.
‘Palazzuole,’ he repeated, as the brakes squealed beneath them.
Zen was about to say that he didn’t have a ticket, but the guard had already disappeared. The train jerked to a halt, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Zen walked hastily to the end of the carriage and stepped down. The train revved up and sidled away, leaving him in total darkness. Almost total, rather, for once his eyes had adjusted, he realized that he could just make out his surroundings by the faint suggestion of light which now tinted the sky, diffused down through a thick layer of mist. The station building was shuttered and obviously long disused. In faded black paint on the cracked and falling plaster he could just make out the letters PAL ZUO E and the information that he was currently 243 metres above mean sea level.
He walked past the station building into the gravel-covered area behind, and along a short driveway leading to a dirt road which crossed the tracks at a slight angle. Here he got out the map and his cigarette lighter, and determined that the village lay east of the railway station which nominally served it. He turned right on to the narrow road, towards the pallid glow which was slowly hollowing out the night.
There was just enough light to distinguish the crushed gravel and glossy puddles of the unpaved strada bianca from the ditches to either side. Zen lit a cigarette and walked on through the damp, clinging mist, up the slight incline of the road which crossed the river and the railway. As he climbed out of the valley, the visibility steadily improved. Now he could see that the fields had recently been ploughed and that the turned earth was silvery with dew. The exercise and the fresh air exhilarated him.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Somewhere else, a church bell began to toll monotonously, summoning the faithful to early mass. By now the light clearly had the upper hand over the mist and the darkness. Every surface glistened and gleamed with moisture, as though it had just been freshly created. As imperceptibly as the dawn itself, the incline of the road increased until he found himself ascending a steep hill which forced the road to twist and turn. Stopping to catch his breath, Zen noticed lights behind him and heard the low growl of a motor.
The vehicle – a red Fiat pick-up truck – neared rapidly, gobbling up the road it had taken Zen so long to traverse on foot. He stepped on to the verge to let it pass, but the truck pulled to a stop and a window was rolled down.
‘ Buon giorno ,’ said the driver.
Zen returned the greeting.
‘Get in.’
The tone was peremptory. After a moment’s hesitation, Zen walked around the truck and climbed into the passenger seat, which he found himself sharing with a small black-and-white dog. The cab reeked of a powerful odour to which he would not have been able, a few days before, to put a name, but which he could still smell faintly on his own skin.
‘Going to the village?’ asked the driver, restarting the truck. Glancing at the dog, which was whining nervously, he snapped, ‘Quiet, Anna!’
‘I’m going to Palazzuole,’ said Zen.
‘Did your car break down?’
‘No, I came on the train.’
The driver laughed humourlessly.
‘Probably the first passenger they’ve had all year.’
Zen studied the man’s face as he negotiated the
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