An old man who was passing approached her with pity; he thought it was a young boy curled up on the ground, one who perhaps had fainted in the oversized scappularu. He asked what was wrong, taking him by the arm to help him to his feet. The cape fell away, revealing a flowered bodice, while a soft, chestnut-colored braid unraveled like a skein of silk.

The old man took a step back but bent down again right away. He’d seen a pistol. He picked it up cautiously. It was loaded.

“What were you thinking of doing, you wretched creature? …” he repeated, hiding the weapon beneath his overcoat and looking around, alarmed.

Ciancianedda stared at him with her sweet, passionate eyes full of sorrow. Then she let herself be led down the short street that was still deserted, toward her husband’s house, blanketed by the fog.

Red Roses

Red Roses

Rose rosse

“A big celebration, donna Bobò?

“God willing, donna Mara.”

“Have they all arrived, the relatives of the groom?”

“All here, from Palermo, loaded with gifts. Father, mother, sister …”

“Can you imagine donna Angela!”

Donna Bobò fell silent, as if donna Angela herself had suddenly appeared to call on her for something. She was surprised, actually, that her sister-in-law hadn’t already interrupted the conversation with their neighbor as she always did. She reentered and closed the window, ever so carefully so as not to make any noise. As she turned, the silver light of the oversized mirror fell across her body, illuminating her whole person. It was then that she looked at herself timidly. Struck by a sort of self-pity, as though seeing herself for the first time, she thought without bitterness that her sister-in-law really had no reason to keep her under watch anymore. She saw the stooped shoulders, the face full of wrinkles like a forgotten little apple, and breasts that were smoother than a plank and somewhat sunken.

Moving quickly away from the mirror, she continued dusting the living room furniture, passing the rag with measured precision, mechanically, across the intricate leaf patterns of the chair backs. Her small, sure hands hurried along, but her thoughts moved slowly, at their own pace.

She could see a diffuse green light, far away and hazy. It was always the way those few disconnected memories of places in a long-ago past came to mind: the arbor at Licata with its ripening grapes, her mother dressed in black, and she herself embroidering bunches of red roses with stems as stiff as sealing wax onto a bright yellow coverlet. The coverlet, that took forever to finish, was destined for her corredo.