It felt like it was just me and the author in an old Italian café that turned into a bar at night. The air felt warm and dim. He poured whisky, neat. One for me, one for him. Then he lit a Marlboro. He did not offer me one. Then he began to tell the story. That is what reading this book felt like. Not text on a page. A voice. Gauis’s voice, not just his writing, carries the whole night forward.