We played ball. In the meadow with the birch tree. But you don’t remember. You have forgotten. It was a big yellow plastic ball with red stars on it. Never again. My father suddenly had to leave. Never again did I have you all to myself. But on that day, I did. She stood behind a projection on a wall, about a hundred metres above the little harbour of Maccagno, and observed the ferry port. Maccagno was not a big town, but had a surprising number of churches. One of them was built on a rock, directly along and above the lakeshore, like a castle. The main street no longer led up around it, but through a tunnel in the rock. One could climb up on a paved path and look down from a sort of terrace in front of the church. A relatively old wall surrounded the terrace. She saw the ferry cut a straight line through the leaden grey water. The old Alpino. And she saw how Tretjak walked along the wooden planks of the landing dock and stopped next to the railing.
