The train was moving slowly as if it wanted to linger and savour the gentle charm of this Eden. It kept stopping at small stations where a few white houses stood. Then, after giving a long whistle, it continued on its leisurely way. No one ever got on. It was as if the entire population was dozing and reluctant to move at all on that hot morning in spring.

From time to time the plump woman’s eyes would droop then quickly fly open again as she just managed to save the basket from falling off her knees. She would examine the contents for a while then nod off again. Beads of sweat stood like pearls on her forehead and she was breathing with difficulty as if she were suffering from some painful constriction. The young man’s head had fallen forward on to his chest and he was sleeping the deep, sound sleep of a country lad.

Suddenly, as they were leaving a small station, the peasant woman seemed to revive. Opening her basket she took from it a hunk of bread, some hard-boiled eggs, a flask of wine and some beautiful, crimson plums. She began to eat. The young man, having also awoken, watched her, following the progress of each mouthful from her knees to her lips. He sat with his arms folded, his eyes fixed and his own lips pressed together. His cheeks were hollow.

The woman ate with huge gusto, swigging at the wine flask greedily to help the hard-boiled eggs down, then stopping to get her breath back. She devoured the lot – the bread, the eggs, the plums and all the wine. As soon as she had finished her meal the boy closed his eyes again. The woman loosened her bodice to be more comfortable and he suddenly looked up at her again. With not a trace of self-consciousness she went on unbuttoning her dress. The pressure of her bosom stretched the fabric so that, as the opening widened, a flash of white undergarment and a little of her skin were revealed. Feeling much more at ease now the woman said in Italian: ‘So hot you can’t breathe, hardly.’

The young man replied in the same language and with the same accent as her own: ‘Good weather for travelling.’

‘You from Piedmont?’ she asked.

‘Asti.’

‘I’m from Casale.’1

Immediately, they started chatting together as neighbours. For some time, as is often the case among ordinary people not much used to making conversation with strangers, their exchanges were stiff and formal. They then discussed local affairs and discovered mutual acquaintances. As the list of people they had each recently bumped into grew, the two became friends. Brief, hurried words with sonorous endings fell from their lips in lilting Italian. They moved on to personal matters.