The immaculate - 7
The huge greyhound was as still as a sphinx, staring at the shutters of that quivering window. The curtain shook in rare turbulence and after the flash – was it a photograph, a lantern, a fire extinguisher? – there was only a speedy commotion of tones on the faint curtain cloth, and it looked as if a giant TV screen was on in a suddenly darkened room. The poor dog yelped and yelped, head high and with pointy ears. I stayed on the balcony, wary, restless, trying to unravel movement in the neighbor’s front door, in the backyard, the other windows, even in the narrow marquise - but saw nothing, nothing at all. For a moment I forgot the hills, lost as they were in that obscure outline where darkness dilutes darkness.
(to be continued)