He put on his parka and grabbed the lamp. He turned up the flame and caught his reflection in a mirror that hung next to the door, its painted frame flaking. With his hood up and holding the lamp, he looked like some character that had stepped out of the nineteenth century.
The yard was overgrown and would clearly benefit from the expert hand of a gardener. Ivy and brambles had smothered the low stone wall that ran around the house, and spread like a brown-green stain across the lawn with its dormant grass. By the faint light of the lamp, he did a circuit of the cottage, but apart from a ramshackle woodpile, the water tank, and an abandoned chicken coop, there wasn’t much to be seen.
He wandered a short way until he reached the main track. It was made of beaten earth, but the winter rains had washed away much ofthe surface, and here and there, large potholes had been filled in with rubble and gravel. Taking care not to twist an ankle, he followed it uphill. He meant to go only as far as the next curve before returning to the cozy warmth of the cottage.
Suddenly, something moved among the vegetation to his right.
Roberto started, but even with the lamp, he could see nothing more than a few stunted trees. A second later, there was a flash of light behind him, and he saw something moving again.
He laughed with relief. It was just his own shadow.
And once again, a huge flash illuminated everything. He looked around, searching for the source of the light. Then, almost immediately, there was another shaft of light. He suddenly realized that it was the lighthouse, its powerful beam sweeping across the path.
He counted slowly between one flash and the next. When he had counted to twenty-four, the pattern was repeated—three flashes, followed by a pause. He wondered if the light would also reach the cottage.
He shivered. That was enough for one night. He retraced his steps, but as he entered the yard, he stopped short.
Somebody had been there.
There was no doubt about it. He had definitely closed the door behind him, but it now stood ajar, and a yellow strip of light from inside stretched across the sodden lawn.
But that wasn’t the strangest thing.
There was something lying on the stone threshold.
He approached slowly and, as the light from the lamp slowly illuminated the object, he felt a ball of ice forming in his stomach.
It was the decapitated head of a rabbit, resting on some twigs.
He looked around warily.
“Who’s there?” he shouted. “Hello! Is there anyone there?”
The only reply was the sighing of the wind and the pitter-patter of the rain. It was as if the island were holding its breath.
He crouched down to inspect the macabre gift. The poor beast stared up at him through watery, lifeless eyes, its teeth bared and astartled expression on its face. The head had been severed cleanly, and there was hardly a trace of blood. He laid the back of his hand against it. It was still warm—the animal had been dead for only a few minutes. He entered the cottage, holding the lamp out in front of him like a weapon.
He went through all the rooms, but there was nobody to be seen, and it would be impossible for anyone to hide in the cottage. He checked his belongings: Everything was just as he had left it. Disconcerted, he took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one.
He tried to remember. He’d closed the door, he was sure of that, but he hadn’t locked it, so anyone could simply have turned the handle and let themselves in. But there was no trace of a visitor.
Nothing to indicate that anyone had been there.
Apart from the decapitated rabbit’s head at the entrance. That could hardly have gotten there on its own.
He took a deep drag on his cigarette and stared out into the darkness, wondering what else this island had in store for him.
Whatever it was, something told him it wasn’t going to be pleasant.
3
The Poacher
The night was long, and he barely slept.
The ghosts of the past had accompanied him. It was always the same—memories of a dark night with cries and screams all around, a constant bombardment of them, until eventually he woke, drenched in sweat. It had become a familiar routine over the past four years. Every time he thought the ghosts had finally been buried, they showed up again, like gate-crashers ruining a party.
He checked the windows, jammed a chair up against the door, and went back to bed, hoping to sleep, only to wake every few minutes, alert to the slightest noise. Each time, it turned out to be nothing more than the wind or the rain. It was nothing, and it was everything.
