Many envied the intimacy that he accorded Costantino and begged the young prisoner to intercede for them to the King of Spades for certain favours. They offered Costantino money. He was tempted to take it, so desperate was he to support Giovanna as much as possible. He could think of nothing else. The King of Spades’ constant hints pricked like thorns and became ever more hateful to him. One day they had a serious argument and for some time afterwards did not even exchange a greeting. Costantino felt he was suffocating. He felt as if he was cut off for ever from the outside world. He was the first to climb down and make peace.

Autumn drew on. The air became cooler, the sky seemed made of blue velvet – soft, distant, gentle as a dream. Sometimes the wind bore the scent of ripe fruit.

Costantino felt less depressed, but full of melancholy. In order to send money to Giovanna he went without everything and grew anaemic. While the other prisoners received a little money, he deprived himself even of what he earned.

‘I don’t understand,’ said the ex-police inspector. ‘You seem to be getting younger and healthier and yet you are almost transparent.’

Costantino’s face burned, and the blood sang in his ears. He felt more homesick even than in the first year. He saw the great high plain drowsing in the autumnal calm, yellow beneath the clear sky, and the mountains warmed by the gentle sun. He smelled the fragrance of the vines and the fruit which ripened late in that land of shepherds and bees. He saw the foxes, the hares, the hives, the wild birds, the horses, the hedgerows laden with blackberries, all the things that had cheered his unhappy childhood. Recalling his uncle, the cruel old Vulture, who had tormented him during his life and now, after his death, was tormenting him again, the young man felt a surge of hatred. Then he thought, ‘He is no more, now,’ and he repented and prayed for the man’s soul.

He did not hate the real murderer nor Brontu Dejas, who as yet had given him no cause for complaint, nor the King of Spades, who continually tormented him. He had not the strength to hate. He felt a gentle melancholy in his blood, as if he were on the verge of sleep, a feeling of love, tender and sad as the autumn sun. He thought of Giovanna continually.

The more time passed, the more he loved her. She was his distant homeland, his family, freedom, life. In her was all hope, faith, strength, serenity, the joy of living. She was his soul. To keep Giovanna he would have remained forty years in prison. At the same time, simply because he dreaded losing her, he longed for freedom.