That reflection in the darkness

ISBN 9788899762308

2,90 3,00 


A crime of passion that has nothing to do with love. A violent and cruel murderer who contemplates feelings without feeling them deeply. An ancient order that claims to elevate itself to the Supreme without knowing and worshipping it. An investigator weary of life, whose intuition reveals the mystery but also discovers, dormant in his tormented soul, a profound sense of life and the need to defend it and do it justice. Once again a tale suspended, as in L’inciarmo, in an indefinite space-time, where the characters are delineated by their consciences and perceptions, without needing a name, a face, a place or an epoch because their story is everywhere and within everyone.

Informazioni aggiuntive


Paper ITA, Paper EN, ePub ITA, ePub EN, Audiobook ITA, Audiobook EN, PDF

Number of pages





Luglio 2023

Partial text

It was almost dawn. I stood on the little wall of the bridge watching the river. Slow and placid it was dragging an old jacket with it.

I had spent the night wandering the streets and alleys of an ‘abandoned’ city, or simply asleep. I had no desire to go home… there was no one waiting for me anyway. I lit yet another cigarette and took a ‘refreshing’ puff. In my mouth I still had the bitter and nauseating taste of half a glass of wine forced on me by the owner of the restaurant during dinner, a dinner as usual frugal and tasteless: I only needed it to continue to survive. Meanwhile I stared at that jacket which slowly slipped under the archway of the bridge. I crossed the road and, with my hands on the edge of the wall, I stared at that brown piece of cloth that proceeded ‘tirelessly’ and effortlessly towards the sea. The first glimmers of the sun cast glimmers of light from the horizon.

I had no desire to return to my walls, where an always unmade bed awaited my limbs. I was not sleepy but at the same time had no desire to meet people. In the meantime the jacket had left the field of my vision and the river quietly continued to flow beneath me, taking my memory with it. Empty of all memories I decided to head home: better the bed than anonymous faces that did not awaken in me any sensation or feeling. I didn’t give a damn! In a few minutes I had reached my destination, I undressed and began to look around, in that dark and bare room I approached the desk, opened the drawer already knowing what I was looking for in the bottom. I placed the brown ball on that old metal stiletto and heated it in the heat of an oil lamp … it had swollen and I placed it in a terracotta bowl. Thanks to the heat of the lamp I inhaled deeply the vapours that came out of the combustion.

A feeling of lucidity and euphoria took hold of me at once, then a deep sense of relaxation enveloped my body and mind… everything had slowed down: breathing, movements. My senses were numbed, my emotions softened, my desires quenched… I had no problem to fade away or else that too would have been undone. Many years had passed since the last time and it was pleasant to rediscover the effects of a vice that accompanied my sleepless and idle nights. That moment was equal to the many I had experienced in my tired and useless life. At that moment there was nothing that aroused any interest in me. I lay down on the floor on a thick carpet, continuing to inhale the vapours caused by the lamp flame, my eyelids closed. Sequential images began to overlap in my mind, confused scenes in a jumble of memories and illusory fragments.

I was fine even though the temperature, though comfortable, did not satisfy my demand for warmth… I slipped a blanket off the bed and wrapped myself in it like a worm in its cocoon. Suddenly the face of a woman well known to me ‘took’ the scene of an ancient drama that was quietly unfolding in my mind. A recurring drama with ever different ‘actors’. The face projected within me was that of the only woman loved in my bleak and useless existence. A flower blossomed in the glow of a dawn like so many others and cut off after some time by the scythe of the hand of a figure dressed in a black habit.