‘Look at this kitchen,’ Bachisia told her daughter enviously. ‘It’s as fine as a front parlour. You must furnish your kitchen like this.’

‘Yes, yes,’ the girl replied absently.

‘Of course you must. Your old mother-in-law Martina is a miser, but you must make her understand that money is made to be spent. Look at this kitchen. It’s a paradise. This is the life.’

‘Maybe the mistress of that house doesn’t want to spend money.’ Giovanna shrugged. ‘It’s hers, after all.’

The maid laughed again, but Porredda did not want to get involved in her guests’ conversation and, turning sharply, she ordered the girl to grate the cheese for the macaroni.

‘What’s the matter?’ Bachisia asked her daughter. ‘Why these sighs?’

‘She’s remembering,’ Porredda thought. ‘How could she possibly not remember? She’s a human being, not an animal.’

‘They’ve cheated us, I tell you.’ Giovanna spoke angrily. ‘The linen isn’t any good. The cloth is stained. Badly stained.’

‘Mercy me!’ exclaimed the servant, imitating Bachisia’s voice, as she grated the cheese.

At that Porredda vented her fury on the wench, all the horror that the guests aroused in her. She called her the names she wanted to call Giovanna – shameless, vile, wretched, ungrateful – and she threatened to beat the servant girl with the ladle. In her fear, the maid scraped her finger and held it up, bleeding.

Just then the young lawyer limped in, wrapped in a voluminous overcoat that looked like a cloak with sleeves. His chubby pink face was as contented as a nursing baby’s.

He asked what was for dinner, then he deigned to sit next to Bachisia, and chatted with her until the food was ready. Efes Maria came in wanting his dinner at once. In the dining-room, two old wooden sideboards gleamed a goldish yellow, while the flagstones on the floor, the stove, and the vases of flowers gave the place the gracious air of a gentleman’s room. Efes Maria looked about him with satisfaction, while Porredda, his wife, moved round uncomfortably, her big feet in shoes like flat-irons.

As on that long past evening, she came in carrying the steaming macaroni. Everyone took their places at the table. Bachisia sat beside young Grazia marvelling at her dress with its wide wing-like, lace sleeves.

‘You never see those where we come from,’ Bachisia said. ‘There are no ladies there. You ladies here look like angels.’

‘Or bats,’ said Efes Maria. ‘These fashions! When I was a boy, the gentry were stout and robust. They were like houses. There aren’t many ladies and gentlemen around nowadays. The mayor’s wife, the ladies—’

‘What about those things they used to wear behind them,’ said Porredda. ‘I remember them. They were like saddles. They really were, believe me.’

‘The last time I came,’ Bachisia said, ‘these wings here were tiny. Now they’ve grown up. And they’re still growing.’