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went in, a little surprised by his own audacity, ready
to withdraw into his shyness.
    `Do sit down. I must apologise. I wasn't expecting any
visitors. So few people come. I hardly see anyone.
    It was the same tone of voice, the same nose, the same ovalshaped face. This must be her mother or her grandmother.
    `Is Susana home?'
    The old lady stood speechless, astonished, dumbstruck.
    `She's not here?'
    The old lady asked in a trembling whisper:
    `Who is it you want to see?'
    Arturo spoke less confidently.
    `Susan. Doesn't she live here?'
    The old lady was looking at him fearfully. Already uneasy,
Arturo felt unease creep monstrously up his spine. He tried to
justify himself.
    `I lent her my raincoat last night. I thought I saw her coming into this house ... She's a young girl of about eighteen.
With blue eyes, pale blue eyes.'
    There could be no doubt about it, the old lady was frightened. She stood up and backed away, staring at Arturo in
bewilderment. He got to his feet, uncertain how to react.
Evidently the distrust was mutual. The old lady bumped into
the wall and stretched her arm out towards a console table. With his eyes, the young man instinctively followed the
movement of her arm, which was simply seeking support.
Beside the place where her trembling hand stopped, the blue
veins clearly visible against the transparent skin flecked with
ochre - suggesting that rust is not only the sign of ageing
metal but of old age in general - he saw an embossed silver
frame and in it a photograph of Susana, smiling.

    The old lady was sidling now towards a door which gave
onto a corridor, she was inching along the wall, not realising
that her shoulder was pressing against an oval engraving in an
ebony frame which swung to one side and finally fell to the
floor. What with the noise and her previous fright, the old
lady subsided, almost fainting, into a faded red chair. Arturo
went forward to offer her some assistance. He was confused,
more surprised than anything else. Even so, he did wonder:
`Has anything happened to my raincoat?' The old lady
watched him approach with terror; she seemed about to call
out, but could only manage a tremulous sigh.
    `What's wrong? Can I do anything for you?'
    Arturo turned his head slightly towards the photograph, the
old lady followed the direction of his gaze.
    `Is that her?'
    `Yes.'
    `That's my niece, Susana.' She paused, then in a much
lower tone, she added: `She died five years ago.'
    Arturo felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Not
because he believed what the old lady had just said, but
because he assumed she was mad, and there was no other sign
of life in the house. Only the sound of the rain.
    `You don't believe me?'
    `Yes, I do, but I could have sworn ...'
    They looked at each other with stricken expressions.
    `We met at a dance.'
    The sentence struck the old lady full in the face. The fine
wrinkles on her skin trembled.
    `Her father never allowed her to go dancing. He's in South
America. May God forgive him ... ! You don't believe me?'
    `Yes, I do.'

    Suddenly, the little old lady's tone of voice calmed Arturo.
`She's probably not dangerous,' he thought to himself, `the
main thing is to humour her.'
    `If you like we can go to the graveyard and I'll show you
her grave.'
    `Of course.'
    `I'll get my cloak. I'll just be a moment ...'
    Arturo was left alone. Gripped by fear, he tiptoed towards
the door. But caution made him slow. He had not quite
reached the door when the old lady came back.
    They went out. The rain had stopped, it was a clear night
with clouds scudding across the sky. As they walked up the
hill to the place where the cemetery lay, their feet grew heavy
with mud. The wind had died down, and the coolness of the
earth refreshed everything. In vain they called for the gatekeeper. Evidently he had gone out or fallen fast asleep. Arturo
insisted they should turn back. Her word was good enough
for him. (It must be very late. His mother