April, May, and June went by. The dreary prison walls once again became ovens. Tormenting mosquitoes awoke. Sickly smells began once more to pollute the air. In the cobblers’ workshop, under the watchful eye of the red-faced warder, the leather, the wax, and the sweat exuded an intolerable smell.

Weaker than ever by now, Costantino suffered terribly from the insects. In previous years he had slept deeply, ignoring the bites. But now he slept lightly and sharp pains that were not always caused by the insects awoke him with a start, making his whole body tremble. Then insomnia began, or a half-stupor, worse than insomnia, that merged into nightmare. He tossed and turned, suffocated by the heat. Often the orange light of dawn arrived before he could close his eyes. Then he would be overcome by a great exhaustion, an unconquerable urge to sleep, and it would be time to get up.

At the end of May, Giovanna wrote begging him not to send any more money. They earned enough to live modestly. She did not write again. Still he did not doubt her faithfulness. The last letter even seemed to him to be proof of affection. The King of Spades waited for him every day with a certain anxiety. He would fix Costantino with a piercing eye and ask solicitously, ‘Any news?’ And if Costantino wondered at this question the police inspector also wondered but did not say why. He only observed, ‘It’s hot.’

‘Yes, it’s hot.’

‘Spring’s over.’

‘It certainly is.’

‘Let’s hope the famine is over in your village.’

‘It must be over. My wife doesn’t want me to send her any more money.’

‘Ah. I know what you mean, my friend.’

The ex-police inspector did not know what to think; he became almost angry at finding his prophecy was not coming true.

One day Costantino did not come to the exercise hour. Burrai found out that his countryman was in the infirmary. A strange fear gripped him and to the old magpie that fluttered around calling in a nasal voice, ‘Costanti, Costanti,’ he replied, ‘Costantino has been struck by a thunderbolt.’

All the prisoners crowded around, anxious for news. But he held up his hands as if to keep them away. ‘I know nothing. Leave me alone.’

‘He finished at nine o’clock,’ said one of them. ‘Costantino was working at the cobblers’ bench. Then a warder came to fetch him. He got up at once, wide-eyed, pale and trembling, and he went with the warder. He didn’t come back.’

Costantino never forgot that day. It was a hot, overcast morning. The clouds seemed to weigh upon the cobblers’ workshop, sending heavy shadows halfway up the walls. The leather of their aprons stinking, the prisoners were in a bad mood.