Isidoro looked at him with pitying eyes. How the poor man had changed. ‘Why is he talking nonsense like this,’ he wondered, ‘when we have deep and bloody things to discuss?’ It seemed to him that Costantino was pretending, that he had wrapped himself in a cloak of feigned indifference. But why? If he did not open up to Isidoro, to whom would he?

‘Let’s talk now, Costantino. Why don’t you want coffee? It’ll do you good.’

‘Say what you want then,’ Costantino said, in his flat voice. ‘I know you’re surprised I don’t burst into tears. I’ve wept so much I don’t want to any more. Anyhow, I’m going away. I can’t stay here now I’ve crossed the sea. All right, give me some coffee. Who’s that going by?’ he said, starting at the sound of footsteps outside. ‘I don’t want anyone to see me.’ He got up and closed the door.

When he returned his face had changed and his chin was quivering. ‘I went past there, on my way here.’ He said softly, ‘I didn’t want to go that way but I found myself there without wishing it. How can I possibly stay here? Tell me!’

He put his hand to his face and shook his head desperately. Then he threw himself down, writhing and weeping with stifled cries of indescribable violence, like a roped bull marked by the branding iron. The fisherman blanched but said nothing to quieten this storm of grief. At last he recognized his Costantino.

XVI

As soon as the news of Costantino’s return spread, the fisherman’s hovel filled with people. All day friends and relatives came and went. People who had never before exchanged a word with the ex-convict now embraced him, and offered him their homes. The women wept, calling him ‘my son’, and watched him with pitying eyes. A neighbour sent bread and sausage. At length, this show of respect and sympathy began to annoy the young man.

‘Why are they being so kind to me?’ he asked Isidoro. ‘Throw them out. Let’s go off into the fields.’

‘We’ll go, we’ll go. Son of God, be patient,’ replied the old man, leaning over the fire to cook the sausage. ‘How wicked you’ve become. It’s hard to believe.’

After Costantino’s spasm of grief, Isidoro ceased to be wary of the young man. He began to take liberties, scolding him as if he were a child. In the few minutes they had been alone he had started to relate everything that had happened in the village. Costantino listened eagerly and became restless when visitors arrived, interrupting the tale.

The mayor with the Napoleonic face came. His visit really moved Costantino.