He got up, pulled a letter out of his jacket’s breast pocket, and began to read. It was from Burrai. He had set himself up in a little shop in Rome, selling Sardinian wines. Of course, he exaggerated the size of the business, saying he was the owner of a large wine store. He offered Costantino a place to stay, told him off for not coming to Rome, and assured him of work. The fisherman’s blue eyes widened in childlike amazement.

‘Well, well,’ he remarked. ‘Why didn’t you say so earlier? Why did you hide the letter? How much does it cost to go to Rome?’

‘Fifty lire, that’s all.’

‘Have you got it?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then go, go!’ exclaimed the old man, pointing towards the horizon. Falling silent, he leaned over and contemplated the bed of the stream where the pebbles looked like large white eggs. Costantino, meanwhile, gazed indifferently ahead. Beside the stream the breeze bent the high golden grass. Long oat stalks shook against the blue background, as if in a veil of water. Isidoro realized the time had come to explain to Costantino why many people wanted him to leave the town.

‘Giovanna doesn’t love her husband. You and she might meet again.’

‘What if we do?’

‘Nothing. It could happen, that’s all.’

‘What of it?’ cried Costantino, his voice ringing out on the quiet river bank. ‘I despise the filthy woman. I don’t want her. I could kill her or have her put in gaol with her idiot lover, but I despise them so much I don’t care.’

‘You don’t love her? That’s why you buzz round her house like a fly round a honeypot?’

‘So you know about that,’ said Costantino guiltily. ‘It’s not true – well, yes, it’s true. I buzz round her house. So what?’

‘Nothing. You must leave.’

‘I’m leaving. Am I a burden on you?’

‘Costantino! Costantino!’ cried the old man in a heartbroken voice.

Costantino wrenched the heads off a handful of rushes, threw them away, and went back to gazing into the distance. His expression changed, just as it had the day he came back, after he had closed Isidoro’s door behind him. The dimple on his chin quivered. Several times he swallowed the bitter saliva that filled his mouth, then he said, ‘Why does the priest want me to leave? Suppose Giovanna does come back to me! Aren’t I her real husband?’

‘If she comes back to you, my son, Brontu Dejas really will kill you. He’s not one to go to church to pray.’

‘I’m not afraid. I don’t want her. In my eyes, she’s a fallen woman. I’m going a long way away. I’m going to marry another woman. Wait until the divorce law comes and then you’ll see.’