When Vanna closed the door and was alone with her husband, he appeared drained and his face dark. Without looking at her he said slowly, “What in the devil did you tell your family?”

“Nothing. Don’t you see how they welcomed you?”

He calmed down a bit, but his look was still hard.

Behind the glass of the monocle his eye appeared dilated and somewhat red. Vanna’s own vision was clouded. She saw her husband with that single eye, big, monstrous, and round like that of a Cyclops. They didn’t speak. They had nothing to say to one another.

He stripped down to his vest to wash, and while drying off, asked: “Who gave you the money?”

“What money?”

“To get down here.”

“I … I had some.”

“And now?”

“What do you mean, now?”

“How do you think you’re getting back?”

“But … you …”

“But you,” he repeated. “Do you think I carry money around in my suitcase?”

Vanna bowed her head. He drew close to her and said in a low voice: “I came because you wanted me to. I didn’t feel the need … to leave. I didn’t know I’d have to pay for your trip back, too.”

Vanna remained silent.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good, you’ll take care of it then. It’s already enough that I’ve come. You’ve got three brothers and a father….”

“Yes,” replied Vanna.

It seemed to her that she was already back in the Rome apartment on the fourth floor. She was extremely pale, and her ears were ringing as though she had drunk quinine.

“Where are you going?” asked her husband suspiciously.

“Out on the terrace. I need some air.”

“Be careful!” he warned, in a voice that was somewhat kinder but firm. “If you make me look bad …”

“Don’t worry.”

Vanna went out slowly. Passing through the dining room, Maria shouted to her from the terrace: “Vanna! They want me to prepare the strawberries. Should I fix them with lemon juice or marsala?”

“Whatever you want, Maria,” she answered. “All right then, make them with marsala,” she added, since her sister-in-law was insisting.

She went down the stairs and out into the street, keeping close to the wall. A man who was passing eyed her curiously, then said something to her.

Vanna started running toward the coast, headed straight to the water’s edge. The wind was blowing through her hair. A surge of water swirled about her feet….

Ciancianedda

Ciancianedda

Massaro Peppe was whittling very slowly on his doorstep, making himself a flute, pushing out his lips with every cut of the small knife that he held tightly in his measured, heavy hand.

“So you feel like playing, massaro Peppe?” said Graziano, coming forward with his lazy walk.

“I’ve always played. What would I do up there like a dried twig while the sheep graze? I play, and I forget about my troubles.”