‘Oh, so he scolded you for it. I’m glad.’

‘This wall, my friend,’ said the King of Spades, straightening up and looking at his hands that were red and pitted with the pressure of his leaning on them, ‘this wall is like chocolate. It’s hot and sticky. If only it were chocolate it would be doubly good. We could eat our way through it and escape. Have you ever eaten chocolate?’

‘Of course! Giovanna liked it. But it’s so expensive.’

‘Oh, you get on my nerves,’ cried the other man. ‘Yes, she’ll wait for you for another twenty-three years, have no fear.’

‘No, I’ll get out before then. Aren’t you going to the king to get me a pardon?’

‘Yes, from the king himself. You don’t believe me, do you? I’m going to the king. He receives all the officials, and am I not an official?’ And he laughed.

After that, Costantino always brought the conversation around to the same subject. The other man veered away from it when he could. He ceased tormenting Costantino about it. At around this time Costantino found that five lire had been deposited in his account.

‘It’s from him, it’s from him,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s from the priest. What a good man he is! But I don’t want it.’

‘Don’t be foolish,’ said the King of Spades. ‘Take it, or he’ll be insulted. “I don’t want it.” Is that how you thank someone?’

‘But I’m ashamed. And what can I do with it, anyway?’

‘Eat, drink. You need it, believe me. I suppose you want to send it back home. To hell with you! If you’re that stupid I’ll spit in your face. She doesn’t even write any more.’

‘What’s there to write to me about?’ said Costantino, trying to reassure himself. ‘She’ll get work now that winter’s over.’

‘Yes, it’s over! And spring is on its way,’ the other man said, meaningfully. ‘Now you’ll see. When does the warm weather come to your village? At home it’s hot by March.’

‘Not until June with us. It’s so beautiful there then. The grass grows high, high. The flocks are shorn, the bees make honey.’

‘What an idyll. You don’t know what an idyll means? Well, it means … to hell with it. Let’s wait for June. Is it a long time since you last went to confession?’

‘Yes. Two weeks.’

‘A long time. What a fool you are, my friend. I’ve never been to confession. My conscience is clear as a mirror. Look,’ he pointed at the student, whose face was waxy, his shaven head so white it looked as if it were powdered, ‘he’s the one who really needs confession. He is knocking at the door of eternity.’