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Andrea grunts. Finally, with a lot of huffing and stretching, we're on our feet. Andrea walks around in his pajamas with an old ma n's movements, his hair all disheveled and his eyes half blind, and he's already lick ing a paper to roll a smoke. He smokes at the window, then begins to wash and shave. Meanwhile he has started grumbling, and little by little the grumbling gives way to singing. My brother has a baritone voice, and though in company he is always mournful and never sings, when he's alone, shaving or taking a bath, he strikes up one of thos e cadenced tunes of his in a grim voice.
In shadow, the house of Baciccin the Blissful seemed a heap of stones; around it there was a dirt terrace, caked, gray, like the surface of the moon, from which rose scrawny pla nts, as if he cultivated poles. There were some wires stretched, for la undry, it seemed; but they were his vineyard of consumptive, skeleta l vines. Only a slender fig tree seemed to have the strength to support its lea ves, writhing under the weight, at the edge of the terrace. Baciccin came out; he was so thin that, to be seen, he had to stand in profile; otherwise all you saw was his mustache, gray and bristling.
Corsica vanished, engulfed by the light, but the border between sea and sky did not become firm: it rema ined that ambiguous, confused zone frightening to look at because it does not exist. All of a sudden houses, roofs, streets were born at the foot of the hills, along the sea. Every mor ning the city was born like this from the realm of shadows, all at once, tawny with tiles, sparkling with glass, lime-white with stucco. The light ever y morning described it in the sma llest details, narrowed its ever y doorway, enumera ted all its houses .