From the Lazzaretto we moved on to the Marina, to the Manifattura. We set up our batteries next to three old petrol pumps. This is where the lorries that transported crates of cigars to the mainland used to refuel. Super, Diesel and unleaded Super. Orange, in perfect condition – the very epitome of a petrol pump. Displayed as if in a museum. A friar used to live here who made miraculous ointments, and for this he was persecuted by the Inquisition. Then the convent was razed to the ground in a struggle between colonial rulers. A century later, the cigar-makers moved in. Fiorenza describes to me their photographs hanging on the walls. I imagine them at work, surrounded by their children. There was also a large theatre for the workers; later it became a cinema and then closed down. In the cellars, the old coal-fired projector is still there. The projectionist was entitled to half a litre of milk a day to clear his lungs, but many fell ill all the same. Traces of a past life characterise the space. In my account, I speak of the present as if it were the past. What traces are we leaving behind?