Standing on its own at the end of the road leading to the bluff, it looked isolated, rising over the hill, near the lake and the sown fields to the west, like a mirage in the deserted plains. There was a stone wall around the property, lined with broken glass, and a tall door with iron spikes. Renzi walked in and across a large lawn. As he advanced up the graveled path, he looked at the whitewashed trunks of the trees, barer and taller the closer he got to the building. Finally, he reached the large front door, and after a while an orderly let him in. The rooms for the women were toward the back; in the men’s block there were only three patients. Croce sat on an iron bed secured to the floor, leaning back against a mattress that he had rolled-up, dressed in a gray robe that made him look older. He wore a wool cap on his head and his eyes were bloodshot, as if he hadn’t been sleeping. Behind him, two other patients stood and faced each other. They seemed to be playing some kind of silent game, with hand and finger signs.
