‘Cooee!’ shouted Brontu, his eyes rolling glassily. The others copied him, each man shouting louder than his neighbour. The street filled with people curious to see what was going on, and soon a battle broke out with pebbles, spittle, and swear words flying between the drunks at the windows and the drunks in the street. Suddenly silence fell. A grave chant rose up, then two rows of ghostly white figures appeared at the far end of the street, and a silver cross shone against the blue sky.

The men in the street drew back against the walls, the faces in the window gazed down and each man took off his cap. As the procession passed by, one of the white-clad boys – who later on would be given three soldi and a slice of melon – banged on the door of the new house, and all the others copied him as they followed.

‘Damned louts,’ said Giacobbe, leaning out of the window. ‘Louts. Look at them, walking in the religious procession!’ He was going to spit on them, but Brontu stopped him.

After the boys in white came a pale green embroidered banner with its mass of different coloured tassels and then the gold staff. Next came the bed, on which lay the Madonna of the Assumption guarded by the little green angels. At each of the four corners of the bed, as well as the bearer, walked a man in a white tunic carrying a child dressed as a cherub. Two of the children were fair and two dark, and they chattered loudly to each other – loudly so as to make themselves heard above the noise. Tickled under the knee by the man who was carrying him, one of the cherubs laughed and wriggled, a wing dangling crookedly.

Gazing tenderly at the four children, Giacobbe, Brontu and their companions knelt and crossed themselves. One of the children recognized his uncle at the window and threw him a pink sugared almond that dropped back into the street.

Father Elias and the young priest from Nuoro, looking pale and handsome in their elaborate brocade and lace robes, sang the Latin prayers.

‘The devil make a hole in your wallet! Here’s that filth of an Isidoro Pane,’ said Giacobbe fidgeting. ‘He looks as if he owns the procession. I’m going to spit on him.’

‘Stop it,’ ordered Brontu.

Giacobbe cleared his throat to catch the fisherman’s attention, but Isidoro did not even raise his eyes. As he walked he intoned the prayers. The crowd responded, following him like a flock of sheep their shepherd.