‘What does he know about babies? He’s sterile, like all of them,’ said Brontu, who hated priests because one of his uncles, the parish priest, had left his property to a hospital. Martina too still felt bitter about this, but the old vixen managed to conceal her resentment, and whenever Brontu railed against priests she made the sign of the cross.

‘What did you say, you idiot? Watch where you put your feet. Father Elias is a saint. If he hears you speak like that you’d better be careful. He has holy books, and he can put a curse on our fields and bring the locusts and make the bees die.’

‘Fine saint!’ remarked Brontu. He insisted on hearing how Giovanna had cried out and what the old bitch Bachisia had said.

His mother told him that Giovanna’s weeping was enough to melt stones while Bachisia was in despair because, on top of everything else, the lawyer’s fees and court expenses had stripped them of everything, even the cottage.

The young man listened intently, showing his fine boyish teeth. He was fierce in his happiness.

‘Giacobbe Dejas will be here shortly,’ said Martina. ‘He wanted to start work tomorrow, but I told him to wait until Monday. It’s a holiday tomorrow. Perhaps he can scrounge a meal somewhere.’

‘San Costantino himself, you’re a mean one, Mother.’

‘You’re just a child! Why waste things? Life is long and it costs a lot of money.’

‘So how are those two women to live?’ asked Brontu, after a moment of silence, sitting down to the dish of bread and eggs Martina placed before him.

‘They’ll have to catch snails!’ Martina said, sarcastically. She picked up her spindle again and set to work beside the open door. ‘You’re showing a lot of interest in those women, Brontu Dejas!’

Silence. The distaff and Brontu’s strong teeth chewing the hard bread were the only sounds in the room. Outside, beyond the portico, the crickets chirped and from farther away in the solitude of the scrub, in the hot darkness of the evening, came the melancholy cry of an owl.

Brontu picked up a glass and filled it with wine. He opened his mouth, but not to drink. He wanted to say something to his mother, but the words would not come. So he drank. With the back of his hand he wiped the drops that clung to his red beard, then he lowered his eyes and again opened his mouth to speak. Still he could not.

From the open space in front of the house came the sound of footsteps. Still spinning, Martina got up and told her son that Giacobbe Dejas was on his way. She gathered up the food and the wine and put them away in the cupboard.