No matter how flattering the critics' reviews of a work are, I immediately put the book aside if it begins with the words “This story happened then.” I am firmly convinced that history, in any sense of the word, cannot begin and end according to the will of the author. I am also firmly convinced that everyday stories do not happen on their own, but are only echoes or, if you like, echoes of previous events that do not always fall into the field of view of the person who takes the liberty to describe them. A story that I want to tell you that it began long before the birth of my heroes and will only end with my departure. And the beginning of my story can be Friday, January thirteenth, one thousand nine hundred and seventy-seven, when at sixteen o'clock the rooster crowed three times.