She would not allow the girl to carry the corn to the grinding machine, a mill driven by a donkey that ground a hundredweight of grain every four days. She insisted on doing it herself. Left alone, Giovanna went into the kitchen, glanced about her, and began to rummage around. Nothing, nothing, no fruit, no wine, not a drop of liquid to satisfy the raging thirst that tormented her. All she could find was a little coffee and she heated it up, putting in a spoonful of sugar from a sack. Then carefully she covered the fire again.

The hot drink seemed to increase her thirst. She would have liked something cool and sweet that she had never tasted before and would never taste again. A deaf, dumb anger took hold of her. Her eyes gleamed. She went to the door of the storeroom and shook it, although she knew it was locked. With pale lips, she cursed under her breath.

Then she went out, barefoot as she was, crossed the yard silently and called to her mother.

‘Come over here,’ Bachisia replied from her kitchen.

‘I can’t. I mustn’t leave the house empty.’

Bachisia came out, looked at the sky, and said, ‘It’s going to rain tonight. There’s going to be a storm.’

‘I wish all the thunder in the sky would come down,’ said Giovanna savagely. ‘Except what I carry in my heart.’

‘You’re in a bad mood, my dear. Where’s the old witch gone? I saw you were winnowing the corn.’

‘She’s gone to take it to the grindstone. She’s afraid to let me do it in case I steal some.’

‘Be patient, dear, it won’t always be like this.’

‘Yes it will. Always. What sort of life is this? She has honey on her lips and a goad in her hand. Work, work, work. She drives me like a draft beast. Barley bread and water, sweat and darkness in the evening, and bare feet as much as I like.’

Bachisia listened helplessly. These complaints were an everyday affair. Bachisia too had to work harder than ever, but she did not complain. It was only Giovanna’s truly miserable state that grieved her.

‘Be patient, my dear, be patient. We’ll see better times. No one can take the future from you.’

‘What does the future matter! I’ll be old by then, if I don’t die of rage first. What’s the use of being well-off when you’re old? There’s no happiness now.’

‘I’d like to be happy too,’ said her mother. ‘And I’d like to have no work to do. I’d like to eat roast meat, soft bread, trout and eels, to drink wine and cordial, and hot chocolate.’

‘Stop it,’ cried Giovanna in a spasm of anger. She told her mother how she could find nothing in the house to satisfy her unbearable thirst and hunger.