Fifteen kilometres west to the Khadakwasla dam, on the way to Panchet, there is a village named Ureti. On a hilltop, beside the river, hidden in a glass and wood house, filled with books, pens, paper lanterns, flags, memorabilia, tram tickets. A sofa, a chair, a writing desk.
That is Umberto Eco’s present library. That is where Sir Vidia appears, every afternoon, at 3, to drink Grappa from a tulip shaped glass.
JJ appears too, but only when he is in a foul mood.
I go there.
Silently- when there is no perceivable work to cloud my calendar, no responsibility born of guilt.
I hear them.
Until they are too drunk- rowdy, incapacitated. Out of senses, groaning, when they can’t overcome me, I sit at Signor Eco’s desk to write.
