The two fell silent again. Then Isidoro said, ‘Who knows? I still hope the wedding won’t take place. I trust in God and Saint Costantino for a miracle.’

‘A miracle. Quite,’ the other man said, his tone bitter.

‘Why not? What if one of these days the real murderer of Basilio Ledda were dying and made a death-bed confession? The prison sentence would end.’

‘Exactly. One of these days,’ replied Giacobbe, still bitterly. ‘You’re as naive as a three-year-old child.’

‘Who knows? Perhaps we’ll find out.’

‘Just so. One of these days. Who’s going to find out? How?’

‘Who? I, you, someone else.’

‘You are as naive, not as a child of three, but as a snail when it first comes out of its shell. How do we find out? Moreover, are we quite sure it wasn’t Costantino?’

‘Oh, we’re quite sure,’ said Isidoro. ‘Any one of us could have done it, except him. It could have been me, or … you—’

Giacobbe got up to leave. ‘So what can we do? Is there a remedy? You tell me.’

‘Any one of us except him,’ repeated Isidoro, without raising his head. ‘There is a remedy. Put it into God’s hands.’

‘Oh, you drive me mad,’ cried Giacobbe, prowling about the hovel. ‘I ask you what we can do about it and you tell me that, like a fatuous fool. I’ll go and strangle Bachisia Era. That’ll do it.’

He left as he had come, seriously angry, without greeting or farewell. Isidoro did not even raise his head. But Giacobbe had left the door open and, after a few minutes the fisherman got up to shut it and remained standing on the threshold.

The March night was warm and moonlit but cloudy. Isidoro could smell the damp scent of burgeoning vegetation. Around his hovel the hedges and the wild plants seemed to slumber in the eerie light of the moon. On the horizon, a wavy line of clear sky meandered through the misty vapours, like a blue river on a sandy plain, with a few nocturnal fires along its banks. Isidoro closed the door and, sighing, returned to work.

XI

It was the Eve of the Assumption, a torrid, overcast Wednesday. Martina was spinning under the portico while Giovanna, pregnant now, winnowed the corn. Although this job usually took two women, she was forced to do it alone, stirring the grain in the sieve to remove the grit and then winnowing carefully over a cloth arranged inside a basket. Giovanna squatted on the ground, the basket in front of her. Another basket lay beside her, full of dusty golden grain.