But over time, little by little, gna’ Filippa’s imaginary matches began to vanish; the hat feather continued to fade, and the lawyer’s earnings grew increasingly uncertain. Father and daughter, however, still went out in the evenings at dusk, always a bit sadder; and Liboria, seated on the bench in the Châlet’s half-deserted park, felt a great weight in her heart like a cry that was trapped. And in the darkness, the broad, shadowy treetops that rustled lightly above seemed to murmur sad things. Coming down the poorly lit street so late at night, she felt more piercingly than ever the shame of those walks. The bitterness of so many years, of her lost youth, turned rancorous, and once home she would begin to take it out on her father.

“Do you understand what a miserable creature I am? That there’s nothing left for me except to throw myself in the sea?!”

“What can I do for you,” mumbled the old man, his voice trembling. “Ti nesciu, ti nesciu, I take you out, I take you out every night! Is it my fault?”

And he would sigh, forgetting to speak in Italian. They overheard him one evening, and in town they started calling him Ti-nesciu.

He no longer went so regularly to court; they were now starting to laugh in his face. Only rarely did he defend a case and he did so with few words, spoken slowly and in a wavering voice, staring anxiously at the judges and his younger colleagues with his small, clear eyes that were partially veiled by swollen eyelids. He did manage to bring home a few lire that he handed over meekly to his daughter, but only after taking a few coins so he could go play the lotto. An old, long-shot dream of his.

And they no longer had hot soup every night at dinner; early in the morning, Ti-nesciu would timidly enter donna Mariannina’s shop to buy a two-cent loaf of bread, explaining in a halting voice, as though he were making excuses: “You know we eat so little … it’s just the two of us, my daughter and me. We no longer have maids in the house. It’s just us … two people! …”

And he repeated the same barely coherent words, pushing past the women who crowded around the counter and placing the loaf carefully in the pocket of his overcoat that he now also wore in the summer, in part because of the terrible cold he always felt, in part to hide his suit.

One morning the baker wrapped up two loaves instead of one without saying anything, and the lawyer, who only had two coins in his pocket, reddened.

“I just asked for one. You know, we eat so little—it would only be left over.”

“Excuse me for taking the liberty, sir. Take it to the miss. It’s fresh … still hot, see?”