It was small and quiet, with squat houses and narrow streets; it had no particular beauty.
I don't know why I talk about it so much, but if I didn't, the shadows of the high, dark mountains around it would smother me.
Sometimes at dusk the sky there took on such extraordinary shades that people would come out of their houses and try to name the colors. But the blends were so strange no name was right for them.
I have spoken of this already, often, and of the house, our house, but I forgot to mention the trees in the garden.
From the start of summer, on one of those trees, we used to find apples that were as sweet as honey, although still unripe. What they tasted like when fully mature is something I never discovered because we always ate them too soon.
This has deprived me of a memory, but how could a child have foreseen that?
It's late. Back there, the nights were still. The drawn curtains didn't even stir. Silence hammered the streets. We were scared, because there was always a bad man in black hiding in the mountains, walking to the city, knocking on the locked and bolted doors.
Before the sun comes up, I have to speak about it all.
The river, the well with its dark wheel, the happy, reassuring summers, sun on our faces at five in the morning, the garden in the churchyard.
Autumn would surprise us in that garden every year with a handful of red leaves falling suddenly from the trees, when we thought there were still plenty of fine days left.
It was amazing how they kept falling, forming a thicker and thicker carpet. What would shuffle through them, barefoot—it was still warm—laughing and starting to feel scared again.
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