‘So, my dear,’ went on the old woman, ‘so as not to make her suspicious, it would be better if you didn’t come here. I’ll come and see you sometimes at your house, just to chat. Ah,’ she sighed, ‘you’re a real man. Look at you, tall and handsome, like a bandit. When I think of that freak of nature Brontu Dejas, and I think of you, I ask myself how Giovanna could have been so wilful as to forget you. Oh, if she’d only listened to me.’

Costantino stood up. The woman’s lies filled him with a fierce desire to hurt someone. ‘Be quiet!’ he said impatiently. But Bachisia glanced at the Dejas’ house. ‘Look, my dear,’ she murmured after a moment. ‘We’re being watched. Giovanna is right. Look at the old harpy spying. I’d like to gouge her eyes out.’

Martina could indeed be seen peering from the dark portico.

At that moment Costantino, who had never really hated Brontu’s mother, felt all his anger and resentment turn against Martina. He wanted to hurl himself across the yard, fall upon the old woman, and gouge out her eyeballs.

‘Giovanna has told me that she’s going to force Dejas to ill-treat her and throw her out of the house,’ said Bachisia. ‘Then we’ll ask for a divorce again. Be careful and patient, my dear. Wait.’

‘What have I got to wait for?’ he replied in a harsh voice. ‘For me, nothing more can happen.’

Bachisia went on talking, but he was no longer listening. Pausing on the threshold of what once had been his home, he glanced at the Dejas’ portico and felt sadder than ever. Having Giovanna as a lover, his last consolation, was about to be taken from him. It was going to be taken by those who had already taken everything and now might even take his life if he went on seeing the woman who used to be his wife. He felt such a wave of hatred for the miserly old Martina that he wanted to make the sweet silence ring with her desperate, dying scream. He rushed out of the door and strode quickly over to the Dejas’ house. Then he stopped, turned, and walked away. Bachisia watched him disappear slowly into the soft, silent dusk. After that, he never went to her cottage.

One day towards the end of October, Isidoro Pane received an unexpected visit. The old man was sitting beside his hearth, preparing supper for himself and Costantino. Isidoro was thinking about the evening Giacobbe had been buried in the dung heap while the widows and young girls sang. Outside the hovel it was already cold, and the fig tree rustled in the wind with a sad murmur. Someone knocked on the door.

‘Who’s there?’ Isidoro asked.

‘Ave Maria,’ Martina said, entering cautiously, having assured herself that he was alone.