She stopped at the door. He left but had only taken a few steps when he heard her coarse voice calling him back. He went to the door and saw, through the crack of light, Mattea’s nose and one of her eyes grown stupid again.

‘What do you want, you cross-eyed goat?’ he called.

‘If you’re going to her, don’t expect me to wait here.’

‘To hell with what you do!’ Costantino swore. ‘I’ll think of going to her when you think of going to church.’

When he returned a few minutes later, the strange girl had disappeared. He thought she was hiding, and he hunted for her, calling in a low voice, saying he’d brought her bread, meat, and fruit. But she had gone. Silence reigned in the little house. Only the fig leaves rustled mysteriously, black against the colourless sky.

Mattea’s disappearance bothered Costantino. What was he to do for the rest of the night? He was not sleepy. He had slept during the afternoon, and now he did not know where to go. He ate and drank. From time to time he spoke out loud to himself.

‘If she thinks I’m going to her house she’s got another think coming.’

Then: ‘Innocent as a new-born lamb! She’s crazy.’

Then: ‘Mattea gives me the creeps. She’s like an animal.’

Then he swore. Then he laughed, the light vague laugh he used when he was alone. All the while he took big gulps of wine and, every time he emptied his glass, he sighed and wiped his hands on his chest. He felt almost happy.

‘To hell with her! To the devil with her!’ Going outside again, he lay down on the stone bench and gave himself up to his real thoughts: ‘So she’s alone. So what? I despise her. I wouldn’t go to her house if she told me it was full of gold. What would I do with gold?’ He began to sing softly.

‘Dear little heart, beloved heart

I wait and days pass by.

When you come the kite will soar,

Weaving in the sky.’

For a while his low, toneless singing distracted him, but then his thoughts returned to the same course. ‘If I go, what will happen? Aren’t I her husband? But I can’t go there. Isidoro makes me laugh, the old fool. Go away, he says, or Brontu Dejas might kill you because he doesn’t go to church or confession.’

He began to sing, again, accompanied by the harsh rustle of the wild fig leaves.

‘When you see the grapevine, flowering in June.

Then you’ll see the swineherd, fattening pigs for brawn.’

He shifted and closed his eyes. Propped on the palm of his hand, his head rocked.