‘You won’t do that, you’re a good Christian,’ murmured the old man in a caressing voice.

‘I won’t do that,’ repeated Costantino, as if hypnotized by the voice.

‘You won’t do that, you won’t do it, you’re a good Christian,’ repeated the old man, and his voice grew sad, remembering past experiences and the ways of the world. He murmured to himself, ‘If he doesn’t, it isn’t only because he’s a good Christian.’

XVII

As the July evening fell serenely, Costantino sat on the stone bench outside the fisherman’s house, counting on his fingers. He had been back for sixty-four days. Sixty-four days. It seemed like yesterday. It seemed like a century. His coarse cotton suit was now threadbare, his face had bronzed, and his heart, corroded from day to day, hour to hour, by grief, bitterness, and passion, had darkened as if in the grip of corruption.

He had brought the habit of pretence with him from the prison. He did not know why but, even though he felt the need, he could not bring himself to trust anyone. This pretence deepened his sorrow. An endless cold emptiness surrounded him, like the calm limitless sea around a shipwreck. For two months he had been swimming in this sea, and now he was tired, devoid of strength. No matter how much he stared into desolate distances, he could not see the shore, he could not glimpse any end to his pointless struggle. The cold water and the abyss of emptiness were slowly engulfing him.

Every day he spoke of going, yet still he did not leave. It was a pretence, like everything else. He felt that he would never leave. Why should he go? Here or there, life was the same. He loved no one, he hated no one, he felt as if he had become as hideous as the prisoners he had left behind. Isidoro, for whom he had felt a lively affection when he was far away, close to meant nothing. Sometimes the old man annoyed him. When Isidoro was away, occupied with his fishing or travelling to sell the ropes he made, Costantino felt freed from a burden. The old man’s fatherly watchfulness irritated and intimidated him.

The fisherman went out that evening. At once Costantino felt a sense of freedom. Now he could do what he pleased without being preached at by anyone, without feeling that instinctive fear and frustration that he remembered from his prison life and that the presence of the old man had re-created. Costantino was waiting for a woman. He despised women now, and felt truly disgusted in their company, but he had embarked on a light relationship with a half-wit girl who lived not far from Giovanna’s. Surprising him near the Dejas’ portico one night, the simple girl had taken him in.