The King of Spades sighed. His enemies, he said, were finding new ways of keeping him inside. He no longer expected a pardon, but the end of his term was at hand. Then he would go at once to the king and tell him everything. The king would order an instant reversal of the verdict and he himself, his innocence established, would be reinstated in his position and career. He promised everyone, especially Costantino, that he would get them a pardon. ‘All will be well,’ he announced, pleased with himself. He so enjoyed making promises that he actually came to believe in them.

‘It may be tomorrow, who knows! It will be a good thing for everyone.’

‘Good or bad,’ said Costantino.

‘Once I leave, maybe you won’t need me any more.’ He immediately regretted his words. But seeing Costantino shake his head in doubt, believing that the King of Spades was referring to a pardon for him, the man looked at Costantino with genuine sympathy.

‘But are you innocent? Are you really innocent?’ he asked. ‘You can tell me everything now, dear friend. Do you remember that when I asked you the first time you said, “May I never see my son again if I am guilty”?’

‘That’s true. Now you’re going to tell me that I may never see my son again. God may will it so, but I am innocent.’

The King of Spades turned to the wall and spat again. ‘Be patient, my friend, be patient.’ His voice was warm and sincere. He thought himself superior for he set great store by his ability to recognize and respect honesty in others. It was why he had come, in his way, to love Costantino. He recognized a simple heart, made of metal so pure that not even the fearful corruption of the prison could taint it. It so happened that he read the letters that passed through him to the prisoner. One day an anonymous letter had arrived, badly written and covered in smudges that looked like dead flies or insects. The letter said that Giovanna, the prisoner’s wife, was allowing herself to be courted by Brontu Dejas, and that Bachisia, hoping for a divorce, wanted to go to Nuoro to present her daughter’s case to a lawyer.

The ex-police inspector became angry, and his friend, the Delegate, who was still involved in his great work, saw him puff out his yellow cheeks and snort and say, ‘Stupid Sardinian fools. Why do they write to him? There’s nothing he can do except beat his head against the wall.’

The letter was not delivered. Each time the King of Spades met the prisoner he gazed at him with profound sympathy, feeling pleased with himself for his goodness.