Free If on a winter's night a traveler by Italo Calvino

pressure, the amount of precipitation, the velocity of the winds. In short, almost without my realizing it, he entrusted me with the job of replacing him for the next few days, starting tomorrow at noon. Though my acceptance was a bit forced, since I was given no time to reflect or to suggest that I could not make up my mind on the spot, this assignment does not displease me.
    Tuesday. This morning I spoke for the first time with Miss Zwida. The job of recording the meteorological readings certainly had a part in helping me overcome my hesitation, in the sense that, for the first time during my days at Pëtkwo, there was something previously established that I could not avoid; so that, however our conversation might go, at a quarter to twelve I would say, "Ah, I almost forgot: I must rush along to the observatory, because it is time to record the readings." And I would take my leave, perhaps reluctantly, perhaps with relief, but in any event with the certainty that I could not do otherwise. I believe I already understood vaguely yesterday, when Mr. Kauderer made me the offer, that this assignment would encourage me to speak with Miss Zwida, but only now has the matter become clear to me—assuming that it is clear.
    Miss Zwida was drawing a sea urchin. She was seated on a folding stool, on the pier. The sea urchin was lying on a rock, open; it contracted its prickles trying in vain to right itself. The girl's drawing was a study of the mollusk's soft pulp, as it dilated and contracted, rendered in chiaroscuro, and with thick, bristling cross-hatching all around. The speech I had in mind, on the form of seashells as a
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    deceptive harmony, a container concealing the true substance of nature, was no longer apposite. The sight of both the sea urchin and the drawing transmitted unpleasant and cruel sensations, like viscera exposed to the gaze. I struck up a conversation by saying that there was nothing harder to draw than a sea urchin: whether the container of prickles was seen from above, or whether the mollusk was overturned, despite the radial symmetry of its structure, it offered few pretexts for a linear rendering. She answered that she was interested in drawing it because it was an image that recurred in her dreams, and she wanted to rid herself of it. Taking my leave, I asked if we could see each other tomorrow morning at the same place. She said that tomorrow she had other engagements, but that the day after tomorrow she would be going out again with her drawing pad and I might easily meet her.
    As I was checking the barometers, two men approached the shed. I had never seen them: bundled in heavy coats, dressed all in black, their collars turned up. They asked me whether Mr. Kauderer was there, then where had he gone, did I know his address, when he would be back. I answered that I didn't know and asked who they were and why they asked.
    "It's not important," they said, going away.
    Wednesday. I went to the hotel to leave a bunch of violets for Miss Zwida. The desk clerk told me she had gone out early. I wandered around for a long time, hoping to run into her. In the yard before the fortress was the line of the prisoners' relatives: this is visiting day at the prison. In the midst of the humble women with kerchiefs on their heads and the crying children I saw Miss Zwida. Her face was covered by a black veil under the brim of her hat, but her demeanor was unmistakable: she stood with her head high, her neck straight and somehow haughty.
    In a corner of the yard, as if observing the line at the
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    door of the prison, were the two men in black who had questioned me yesterday at the observatory.
    The sea urchin, the little veil, the two strangers: the color black continues to appear to me in circumstances bound to attract my attention, messages that I interpret as a summons from the night. I realize that for a long time I have tended to reduce the presence of darkness in my life. The doctors' prohibition of going out