The Boathouse

Since the Sunday of the cake, Livia had said nothing to me but a mother's sentences, at lunch and dinner, in front of Pina. Put a jumper on. Eat. Have you taken your vitamins. The rest of the time she was at the seteria or up under the roof. On the Monday she had written out the week's menu as usual. There were no walnuts on it. Tommaso had stopped watching me eat. He was watching Livia.

On Thursday 5 March, the church bell had just struck midnight when she appeared in my doorway.

I wasn't asleep. I never slept before two. I was lying on top of the blanket, dressed, my hands folded on my stomach, watching the stars on the ceiling fade. I heard her come up. Not in slippers, this time. Flat shoes with rubber soles, which made almost no sound on the red runner.