They had gone back to work – what else was there to do? The women had all shown Giulia their support. Gina had cooked her the cassate she loved so much. Agnese had bought chocolates for Mamma. La Nonna had offered to take turns at Papà’s bedside. Alessia, whose brother was a priest, had offered prayers to Santa Caterina. Giulia was surrounded by a small, close-knit community that refused to succumb to grief. For their sake, she wanted to remain positive, just like her father. He would wake from the coma, she was certain of that. He would take his place at the helm of the workshop once again. This was just an interlude, she told herself, a moment suspended in time.

She sat at his bedside every evening, after the workshop had closed for the night. She had taken to reading aloud to him. According to the doctors, coma patients could hear what was being said around them. And so Giulia read aloud, for hours: poetry, prose, novels. My turn to read him stories now, she thought. He who read so much to me. Her papà could hear her, from where he lay, she knew that.

She had gone to the library today in her lunch break to borrow books for him. And a curious thing happened when she stepped into the reading room, bathed in silence. At first, she didn’t notice it, hidden between the bookstacks. Suddenly she saw it.

There it was.

The turban.

The turban she had seen before, out in the street, on the Feast of Santa Rosalia.

Giulia was dumbfounded. The stranger was standing with his back to her. She couldn’t see his face. He moved to another row. She followed him, intrigued. When he reached for a book, she saw his face at last. It really was him, the man who had been arrested by the carabinieri. He seemed to be looking for something, but unable to find it. Struck by the coincidence, Giulia watched him for a moment. He hadn’t seen her.

Finally, she approached him. She had no idea what to say – she wasn’t in the habit of talking to men she didn’t know. As a rule, they were the ones who came to flirt with her. Giulia was beautiful, people often told her so. Despite her tomboy looks, there was an innocence about her, coupled with a sensuality that seldom left men indifferent. She felt their eyes on her as she passed by. Italian males were skilled talkers. Fine words, the usual overtures, she knew where it could lead. But she was surprised by her own audacity today.

‘Buongiorno.’

The stranger turned, in surprise. He didn’t seem to recognize her. Giulia hesitated, awkwardly.

‘I saw you the other day, in the street, during the procession. When the police …’