“I doubt it. Cremonesi has become a businessman. He’s a member of high society here. If you ask me, those are the kind of things he’s left behind him.”

“No. He’s a weed, a bad seed. And a bad seed is what he stays until the end of his days.”

Judge Messina smiled. He stroked his beard again and said nothing.

THE NIGHTS IN PRISON WERE LONG. ALWAYS HAD BEEN. BUT for Sergio Mozzicarelli the nights he was living through now were interminable. He tossed and turned in his bed without being able to get a wink of sleep. How the hell was Aldo able to sleep on like that? But then, Aldo hadn’t seen what he had. And Karim? He, too, seemed wide-awake. He narrowed his eyes, squinting to see through the dark. Karim was writing something on the wall.

“What are you doing?” asked Sergio in a low voice.

“I’m writing my name.”

“Why?”

“Because if I stare hard at it, I might start to feel like sleeping.”

Sergio sat up in bed.

“Why can’t you sleep, Sergio?”

“Because . . . Karim, I saw something.”

The Tunisian turned over. His eyes were glistening. He was crying. “What did you see?”

“The other day, down in the courtyard.” He lowered his voice and whispered: “I saw who killed Cuntrera.”

The young man heaved a deep sigh. He ran his hand over his face. “Where I come from, we say that the fruit of peace hangs from the branches of the tree of silence.”

“Still, I can’t help but think about it.”

“Think about it, but don’t tell me. I don’t want to know about it. I don’t want to know about anything. I count the days, Sergio, and I can’t wait to get out of here. And when I’m out of all this,” he said, taking in the little cell with a glance, “it isn’t going to be anything more than a bad memory.”

Sergio nodded. “What would you do in my situation?”

“I’d get some sleep.”

“DON’T YOU WANT ANYTHING, ROCCO?” ANNA ASKED HIM AS she munched on a small plateful of grape leaves stuffed with black rice, apparently now having forgiven him for his gaffe in the stables.

“How do you know these people?”

“My ex-husband. He used to socialize with them before moving to Geneva. High finance. The Turrinis are a very wealthy family from Milan. They own shops, apartment buildings. Berardo’s grandfather owned steel mills.”

“Yes, but why do you keep frequenting them?”

“I don’t know. Could it be because I’m bored? You want the truth? You see that guy who looks sort of like Giuseppe Verdi?” She turned her eyes to a little short man dressed in a charcoal-gray three-piece suit, with an overripe yellow flower in his buttonhole. He was talking animatedly to a woman as skinny and dry as an olive branch.

“Well?”