I wondered what pigeons know about death. At one point I had a sense that the widow wasn’t so much mourning as waiting, as if she thought what had happened to the pigeon could be reversed. My suspicions were confirmed, in a way, when the wind started to blow. The widow got excited because it looked like the corpse was stirring; the wing that was outstretched, as if it had fallen there, began to move in a kind of flapping motion. The widow abandoned her pose and started pacing nervously up and down, though she didn’t move any closer to the corpse. She simply walked back and forth in a straight line, shaking her head and looking concerned. When the wind dropped, she returned to her waiting. This happened again, two or three times, with every fresh gust of wind. I kept putting off my breakfast, fascinated by the scene. Then my memory presented me with the key to this tragedy: I suddenly recalled that a few months ago I’d seen a different incomprehensible scene unfold outside my window. On a balcony of the hotel opposite, on a higher floor than my apartment, I’d seen a man, who was neither young nor thin, absorbed in a strange pursuit. The hotel is no longer in use; it’s closed down, and the building is very dilapidated. There are no windows or blinds, and one of the openings that lead onto the balconies doesn’t even have a door. On the floor below there’s always a little window lit up at night; I don’t know who lives there, or even if they’re legal residents. Now and then I’ve seen someone, someone younger and thinner than the other person, drinking mate on the balcony of the floor level with this one. In the strange scene my memory presented me with, the man who was neither young nor thin was firing stones from a catapult, aiming at the street corner diagonally across from the hotel. The man noticed me at the window and launched several stones one after another, apparently at random, and then vanished into the hotel. I thought he’d found a catapult in the street and couldn’t resist trying a few shots. But today I realised something else was going on: that man hated pigeons, and had made the catapult himself in order to kill every single one that came within range. It seems implausible, but I’m sure it’s what happened. I hope the widow is spared.