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  One day a bishop visited the parish. He found the church in excellent state, the cure of souls exemplary. The vicar's hard work from dawn to dusk was not in vain; after all that was why he was returning home so tired that he couldn't even be bothered with the devil.

  "We should like very much to see the vicarage too," said the bishop at the end of his visit.

  The vicar remembered what sort of guest the bishop would meet in his house and he panicked. Convinced that it was the end of everything, certain of unavoidable scandal, of utter shame and complete disaster, cursing under his breath both the devil and his own foolhardiness - why didn't he throw the devil out on the first day? why did he procrastinate? what was he waiting for? - he opened the door. And wasn't he surprised, and relieved, when he found there was no one there? The devil had disappeared. The vicar couldn't help feeling grateful to the devil, though he knew that such a feeling was in the highest degree imprudent, humiliating and undignified. The devil though he was, when the need arose he had behaved with decency, friendliness even.

  The bishop looked around and was just about to praise the humble, eremitic dwelling when he noticed the red jockeycap which the devil had left on the table. He turned his eyes questioningly on the vicar, for it seemed to him odd that a virtuous custodian of the faith should parade in such frivolous headgear, bringing disrepute to the holy ministry. Odd and unbefitting.

  "It's a ... it's my nephew. He visits me sometimes," lied the vicar. Had he said the cap belonged to him, he would have lied too.

  The bishop nodded his head with understanding and expressed his general approval. He left the parish, still very pleased. When the vicar was finally alone, the devil came out of the wardrobe where he had hidden. He walked up to the priest, his ugly visage contorted in a sickening smile of triumph.

  "My dear uncle!" he cried with joy, and opened his arms.

  Please, can't you understand? There was nothing extraordinary about her. After all, we're both grown-ups, men of the world, each with his own burden of intimate experience. Let's simply say she was sexy; I hope the word means something to you .. .

  She had a slender yet shapely figure; the face thoughtful, without a hint of frivolity. The eyes rather cool. Passing such a woman on the street a man might study her figure, her face, her style and come to the conclusion that she is not an easy conquest, but would certainly be worth the effort. Such women avoid casual friendships. One does not meet them in cafes or on lonely walks in fashionable resorts. They are never alone. They are always accompanied by a mature, handsome man with a sporty air - greying hair, corduroy trousers, thick pullover, a pipe. You know the type, don't you?

  She, on the other hand, elegance itself, so refined, if a touch old-fashioned. The fragrant body, the skin lightly tanned by good mountain sunshine, the long, calm hands which bring to mind old portraits of cardinals ... Come to think of it, she also radiated an aura of purple and gold, like a burning renaissance palace. Beautiful? No, she was not beautiful. Her face was rather oval, I'd say thin. Very expressive eyes - gold set in black. If there was anything of truly classical beauty in that face it was the nose. Charmingly formed, like a face on a rococo cameo. Her wrists were unusually thin and her hands had the supple slenderness of a flower on a stem. No, she didn't wear any jewellery. This type of woman shuns such ostentation. She wore only that medallion with its fantastic effigy, the one which you don't seem to be able to fit into your theory ... For me, luckily, this medallion is the main evidence of her existence. Without it I would have no choice but to accept the conclusion that I am mentally ill ... Really, it's utterly absurd to maintain that finding it was just a coincidence. Have you ever seen anything like it? Haven't your laboratories proved themselves completely helpless in dealing with this lump of metal? Finally, don't you yourself, inspector - a level-headed and reasonable man though you are - aren't you struck by the peculiar mystery of this object which instead of sitting in your files with all your evidence keeps being sent from one laboratory to another? All right, back to the story. So, as you know, I arrived in N. where I was impatiently awaited. I was to give a series of talks about contemporary cinema. I am no expert but since we have this tradition of intellectual discussions on popular topics, competence is less appreciated than effortless brilliance. I arrived in N. by plane. I had a good flight; lovely, end of May weather. Here on the coast, it was still rather cool and when I got off the plane I felt a light breeze on my face. I like that - the moist scent of infinity, you understand ...

  I stayed at a small hotel, in the old part of town. In N., as everywhere in the country, there is a terrible shortage of hotels - you probably know more about it than I do - and the organisers must have performed miracles to book me into such a nicely furnished, charming room, one with windows opening onto a delightful view of the Old Town. In the hotel restaurant, which was somewhat empty despite its excellent reputation, I had lunch before my first lecture. Pardon? No, I never drink. I've said that many times before. That's why it was so striking. When I was choosing from the menu I was overcome by the irresistible desire for a small glass of vodka. I was really surprised. But I succumbed to this innocent fancy.

  After lunch I went to my lecture. It was to take place in a very beautiful, elegantly furnished public library with a magnificent oak staircase, richly carved banisters - you know the interior anyway. A well-dressed, cultured audience filled the lecture room; there were old prints on the walls, a small collection of arms and a few portraits blackened with age, a beamed ceiling ... In a word, the atmosphere of a spiritual feast.

  As I sat in a comfortable armchair, facing the auditorium, I suddenly felt ill at ease. It was quite unbelievable, what with my audacity and experience. Difficult to say what it was, really ... At any rate, I said to one of the ladies who were looking after me, an obliging lady in a beige dress, that I felt rather hot and thirsty. She greeted my confession almost with joy, certain that I had stage-fright and proud that I had shared such an intimate secret with her. The windows were flung open and a cup of coffee and some mineral water appeared on the table by my side. The lady in beige, maternal and coquettish at the same time, handed me a glass.

  Well, I was neither hot nor thirsty. But how was I to tell the gentle ladies something so preposterous - that I felt oppressed by an unpleasant smell in the room? From the moment I seated myself in that armchair, my nostrils were fiercely assaulted by a noxious stench, the bitter-sweet odour of a rotting corpse, which made me want to retch. I looked at the faces of my audience and came to the conclusion that I must be imagining it. I got a grip on myself. The smell was still there but I put on a brave face and started my lecture. The minutes passed, filled with the gentle hum of the city flowing into the room through the open windows. The foul smell disappeared but I began to feel a certain restless tension rising slowly within me. I was supposed to be talking about Jean-Luc Godard but I could not concentrate on the content of my lecture. I was growing more and more distracted, filled with an inexplicable feeling of expectation. The air seemed to be charged with electricity, like in a stuffy, unaired room before a storm. I drank some water. The kind lady in beige gave me an anxious look. I noticed it, but suddenly my gaze wandered deeper into the room, towards the windows. I met the eyes of that woman. She was looking at me attentively, insistently. In the soft light of the room I saw her big eyes, like two golden bees, still and yet alive, incredibly alive. It was an unsettling moment. As I took my eyes off the bees, for a second it seemed to me that I could clearly hear their buzzing around my head. I picked up the thread of my talk again, and again the library filled with my voice, steady if somewhat monotonous. But it didn't last for long. After a while, almost automatically, as if independently of my will, my eyes returned to that woman, drawn to a medallion on her long neck. I also noticed that the lady was not alone ... Next to her sat a man, very handsome, with a strange expression on his noble face. I wouldn't have noticed him at all but for his eyes, fastened on his companion. There was so much suffering in
those eyes, so much despair and resignation! The woman seemed to be completely oblivious to his presence, as if he did not exist. Her whole body was turned towards me, her whole being concentrated in the golden, velvety gaze which was almost caressing my face. And again, I smelt briefly that terrible odour. When it passed, a wave of penetrating cold swept over me and then a wave of heat, just as if I had been dropped into the waters of the Arctic and immediately afterwards exposed to the burning winds of the desert ... I thought there was something wrong with me, I must have been taken ill, caught a cold. Or maybe it was the vodka? I carried on talking, confusedly, about Antonioni and his conception of unrequited love. It sounded, I suspect, rather unimpressive. I continued with my talk, quickening the tempo to finish as soon as possible and return to the hotel; I did not feel safe in this room. But it was not to be. When I'd finished, a lively discussion took place. People spoke but I can't remember what they were saying. My thoughts were full of the woman and her companion. She was still looking at me, stubbornly, not taking her eyes off me. There was something shameless in her behaviour, but nobody noticed, except for me and that gentleman who, all this time, had been looking at her with despair. Suddenly, something extraordinary happened. I got up from my armchair, raised my hand in a commanding gesture and interrupting some old fellow I said:

  "Stop this idiotic drivel! I've had enough! I'm going back to the hotel."

  It became silent, like in a church at communion time. The kind lady in beige went pale, her eyelids fluttered. I knew she was struggling but finally her sense of duty prevailed, for she formed her lips into an uncertain smile and addressed the audience with some conventional words of apology, explaining that I was tired and unwell. I cut her short and, suddenly, I found a wild joy in ridiculing and humiliating her.

  "Will you stop this nonsense!?" I shouted. "I'm in excellent form but you all simply bore me ... You in particular, with your intellectual chatter."

  I saw how she clasped her hands and squeezed them till her knuckles went white. That only fired me up.

  "Oh, please go on, faint ... What will the local busybodies make of it? `Frustrated old spinster faints in the arms of a famous film director!"'

  Again, silence fell for a moment and everybody looked at me as if I was standing in front of them naked. And then the quiet, even peal of that woman's laughter resounded throughout the room. She got up and clapped her hands. Nobody looked at her; it was as if they were unaware of her presence or her laughter. The lady in beige said very quietly:

  "You will be kind enough to leave our meeting."

  "With pleasure," I answered brutally. I left immediately; nobody saw me out. When I reached the stairs I heard a great hubbub of voices erupting in the library.

  On the street I came to my senses. "Good God!" I kept saying to myself, "something terrible has happened ..." I walked hurriedly towards the sea, which in N. breaks into the city unexpectedly among the houses and old baroque palaces. A gentle breeze caressed my face. I was devastated. Imagine my situation, inspector - such a scandal! I arrive in town preceded by my reputation as an intellectual and an academic, a man of the world and every inch a gentleman. I have friends in the artistic circles here who think of me, and rightly so, as a sober-minded and serious man. And then, suddenly, without any rhyme or reason, I behave like a complete hooligan, a churl. I asked myself, what the devil had got into me? For a moment I felt elated, then very weak, and finally I was overcome by shame ... I came to the conclusion I had to do something immediately, invent some excuse, offer some justification. So, I had to make myself ill - not with anything minor, but with a serious nervous disorder. After all, I have a sensitive, artistic nature, these are hard times, requiring constant mental effort, I've been working hard of late, exhausted my reserves, so it must be a nervous breakdown. It was not completely convincing, but it sounded reasonable. This was it then - an illness. I was so taken by the idea that I decided to go and see a doctor at once and ask for his advice. I felt completely crushed by my madness. I couldn't establish where, all of a sudden, this crazy idea had come from, and how such a pitiful incident could have happened at all. I also thought that I should send the nice lady in beige some flowers and a card full of entreaties and profuse apologies; but, of course, I didn't know her address. I wandered aimlessly around the streets, turning left, then right, speculating frantically, full of growing shame and horror, feeling more and more helpless.

  Suddenly, I found myself in front of the restaurant "The Dancing Salmon", right in the centre of the town. I gave up the idea of seeing a doctor. The mood of almost serene recklessness returned. Simply, in some inexplicable way, I forgot about the incident in the library.

  On entering I found myself in a big, spacious room. It was early evening, the end of May, still the low season in a town which from the beginning of summer attracts thousands of tourists and sea-bathers. The restaurant was therefore nearly empty, with just a few tables taken by the guests. The electric light was already switched on but it was mixed with gentle sunlight flooding into the room through the wide windows on the street side. To the few passers-by the interior might look like a huge aquarium, as the strained light of the chandeliers, reflected in the greenish colour of the walls and furniture, created an illusion of shimmering, seductive depth.

  A distinct if unobtrusive smell of cooking hung in the air, and as I walked across the luxurious carpet in search of a table I passed a bar full of appetising hors d'oeuvres. At the other end of the room I was struck by a peculiar sight. High on the wall, above the music stands of a dance orchestra, hung an enormous painting depicting life at the bottom of the sea. At first sight the thing was quite ordinary, even though executed with a certain talent, but it made a depressing impression on me. Among the tangled dark green seaweed and slimy, brown stones the artist had placed marine creatures of all shapes and sizes - livid algae, silvery starfish, an octopus in shades of purple and gold, strange, unfamiliar creatures of oblong shapes and colours, all tangled up in some passionate whirl which touched my heart with cold fear. To tell the truth, this feeling was not unjustified. You know of course, inspector, the Venetian delicacy frutta di mare. On a plate it looks quite innocuous. But imagine all those oddities spread out on a wall six metres by three ... ! Even Potter's famous still-lives - those crystal goblets filled with fine wines, roast turkeys, peeled lemons on which, here and there, glistens a drop of juice - even they would look monstrous in such dimensions. Just imagine, ten square metres of beefsteak! What I saw was an entire wall of creatures which looked far less appetising. I sat with my back to the picture but still felt uneasy, like a man who is aware of a huge spider crawling about behind him. A waiter appeared. When he handed me a menu I said that that work of art on the wall didn't look very inviting.

  "Why not?" he asked with a smile. "It's just an ordinary sea view.

  "You mean under-sea view," I corrected him.

  "Well, no ... I think not," he said and walked away.

  As he was speaking, while he still stood at my side, I looked behind me, at the wall. And indeed what I saw was the greenish surface of the sea spreading far and wide, gently ruffled but calm. Further in the background loomed the outlines of the shore, hills with patches of sunshine, an empty beach painted with a thick yellow line. It was all quite subtle and evocative, but as I stared at the painting with growing amazement I began to see emerging out of the greenish waters the shapes of algae, starfish, octopuses, all that slimy eddying mass of marine fauna and flora. Almost imperceptibly, and yet so obviously, the land, the hills and beach were disappearing in front of my eyes while the contours of the horrible creatures assumed more and more definite shapes and colours. Something strange was happening to me once more. I shut my eyes tightly and when I opened them again all I saw was the indescribably dark depths of the sea, torn here and there by flashes of silver, gold and purple emanating from the terrifying animal forms. Believe me, inspector, it was unbearable! I turned my head away, ready to get up and leave immediately
to see the nearest doctor.

  Just then I saw that couple again. They were sitting at a nearby table, in silence, like two strangers. She was looking at me, the way she had looked at me in the library. He was looking at her with the same expression of hopelessness and despair. This time I found a different quality in the woman's eyes and that discovery sent shivers all over my body. Those two golden bees in the crystal chandeliers' light seemed both sensual and aggressive. There was something enticing in the woman's gaze, which was melancholy and at the same time victorious, the way a woman looks at her lover. It was unbearable and yet utterly charming. This kind of gaze is the sole privilege of a man. Only we can lay bare a woman's emotion in this way - in a theatre foyer, at a restaurant table, strolling in a park. And here this woman, quiet and dignified on the surface, was now giving me a brazen look of naked desire, here, in broad daylight, in the presence of other people, in the glare of the chandeliers and the setting sun. It was amazing, magnificent, delicious and unbearable.

  At that moment, just as before in the library, an unpleasant smell, at first faint then simply disgusting, overpowered my nostrils. I looked around, uncertain, trying to trace its source, but nothing I could see might explain it. The waiter appeared, bowed and asked for my order. I answered rather brusquely that there was a strange smell in the room, which was surprising in an establishment which enjoyed such an excellent reputation. He sniffed like a hunting dog, looked around, and then at me.