He smiled at her, showing his teeth. With his gleaming hair, he did indeed look clean and handsome. Giovanna began to feel tender towards him as he hummed a song that children sang when it rained:

‘Rain, rain, pouring rain,

The grape and the fig are ripening again.’

The three of them ate contentedly. Claiming she had no appetite, Martina devoured the bread, onions, and cheese. After supper Brontu asked Giovanna if she’d go for a walk with him, and they wandered through the village’s empty alleyways, heading nowhere in particular. The sky had grown crystal clear. A shooting star draped a golden thread across the horizon, and the scent of the shrubs and the drenched stones quivered in the air. The alleys were full of sand and mud. Giovanna was wearing wide, clumsy shoes that clattered on the stones. As he often did, Brontu took her arm and tried to amuse her with tall stories.

‘Guess what Zanchine found?’ he said. ‘A baby.’

‘When?’

‘Today, I think. He was rooting out the stump of a mastic tree when he heard a crying noise. He searched around and found a baby. It was only a few days old. Now comes the good part. A small cloud rushed up, growing bigger and bigger. It dropped down over Zanchine and grabbed the child. It was an eagle. It must have stolen the baby from somewhere and hidden it in the scrub. When the bird saw Zanchine pick up the child, it swooped.’

‘Go on with you,’ said Giovanna. ‘I don’t believe a word of it.’

‘If it’s not true I’m a rich man.’

‘Get away,’ she repeated, irritated now. Brontu realized she was upset rather than amused, and he asked her if she’d been having bad dreams. Remembering the dream she’d had, she did not reply. Soon they reached Isidoro Pane’s hovel. To the east the moon’s face shone large and golden against a silver sky while the black earth, the sodden trees, the stone cottages, the heath, and the whole wild plain as far as the distant horizon, glistened like the smile that follows tears.

As the two young people passed the fisherman’s cottage, they heard Isidoro singing a hymn. Brontu stopped.

‘Come on.’ Giovanna pulled him by the arm.

‘Wait. I want to knock on that thing which passes for his door.’

‘No,’ she said, urgently. ‘Let’s keep going. Come on, or I’ll leave you by yourself.’

‘Oh, so it’s true that you quarrelled with him. Not me though. I’m going to knock on his door.’

‘I’m leaving then.’

‘He’s singing the hymn to Saint Costantino. The one the saint gave him on the river bank,’ Brontu said, joining her. ‘The old man is out of his mind.’