When I left the house, I noticed Roberto wasn't alone in his yellow car. I saw the black cigar, indistinct in the darkness, and understood everything.

"You could at least stay home on your birthday," my mother said before I went out, but I didn't listen to her. I softly closed the door and left without answering.

The arrogant angel looked at me with a smile, and I climbed into the car, pretending I hadn't noticed Pino in the back seat.

"Well?" Roberto asked. "Don't you have anything to say?" He nodded toward the back.

I turned and saw Pino, wasted, his eyes red, his pupils dilated. I smiled at him and asked, "Did you smoke?"

He nodded yes, and Roberto added, "He also drank an entire bottle of grappa."

"Splendid," I said. "He's in great shape."

The lights of the city were reflected on the car windows. The shops were still open; the owners eagerly awaited Christmas. Couples and families strolled on the sidewalks, unaware that I was riding in the car with two men who were taking me to some strange place.

We crossed Via Etnea, and I saw the Duomo, the cathedral illuminated by white lights and surrounded by impressive palm trees. The river flows beneath this street, hidden by volcanic rock. It is silent, imperceptible. Just like my silent, docile thoughts, skillfully concealed behind my armor. They flow, eating away at me.

In the morning the fish market is held nearby. You can smell the scent of the sea on the fishermen's hands, their nails blackened by entrails. They fill a bucket with water and splash it on the cold, gleaming bodies of animals that are still living, still quivering. We were heading precisely in that direction, even though at night the atmosphere changes. When I climbed out of the car, I realized the scent of the sea metamorphoses into the scent of hashish, kids pierced with studs and rings replace the old, tanned fishermen, and life continues to be life, always, no matter what.