Day after day, I find ever fewer chestnuts on the hotel terrace. It is now covered with fallen leaves. Still, this afternoon I found as many as three chestnuts, one of which was unusually large. In fact, I cannot remember ever finding a larger one. And I can hardly wait to sling it into the woods under my terrace. The vision of a flying chestnut is with me lately. I point my sling toward the sky. It makes a loud sound when it releases the chestnut. As it goes upwards, it gets ever smaller. Then it comes almost to a standstill just before plunging downwards. It gashes through the crowns of acacias below my terrace, and burrows into the sodden soil with a barely audible thud. The path of each and every chestnut is mesmerizing. Time stops. Tears occasionally come to my eyes. As is the case right now, as I am putting it into words. Flying chestnuts are with me night and day. All I need to do to see another one is to close my eyes…