‘I’m sure. I haven’t closed my eyes for three months. One night I found out there was someone in Giovanna’s room. She realized I was suspicious and was careful for a while. But now it’s without restraint, quite open. The other day they met in Bachisia Era’s house. I saw them. I heard them. I was listening at the door. Yesterday night he came back to her room, you understand, in my house, under my roof. I … trembling with hate, I waited under the eaves. I wanted to talk to him, hurt him, kill him. I had a knife, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t open my mouth when he slithered down from the roof and ran off, like a thief. I’m only a poor old woman. I can’t do anything. Giovanna knows I love Brontu more than anything in the world, and to save him I’d even sacrifice the honour of our name. She’s abused my great love, the ungrateful tramp. She knows I won’t say anything to my son, in case he kills her and destroys himself. She takes advantage of me so as to go on deceiving him. If Costantino doesn’t stop, there’s nothing I won’t do. Tell him.’

‘Why don’t you talk to Giovanna?’ the old man asked.

‘I’m afraid of her. She’s always there in front of me, like a skulking tigress, or rather a tigress lying in ambush. She hates me and I hate her. She’s waiting for me to say something, anything, and then she’ll throw me down and strangle me. If I open my mouth, I’m lost. It’s terrible, terrible. If you only knew how dreadful my life is. Death could not be more bitter.’

Martina hid her face in her hands and sobbed. A feeling of infinite pity flooded the old man’s heart. He, who despite the poverty of his existence had never wept, realized that rich, proud Martina was more miserable than a beggar.

‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said. ‘Go now and try to stay calm. It’s time for him to come home.’

She rose, wrapped herself in the woollen cloth she’d worn over her head when she arrived and, after the old man had checked to make sure no one was watching, she walked off slowly.