Giulia thought of his photograph in the office, beside those of his father and grandfather. Three generations of Lanfredi, succeeding one another at the head of the workshop. And she decided that to give up now would be treachery indeed. The destruction of everything they had worked for, all their lives: wouldn’t that be the ultimate betrayal?

Suddenly, she wanted more than anything to believe in Kamal’s plan. The workshop would not go under. She would not marry Gino Battagliola. Kamal’s idea was a gift from heaven, a piece of luck, an act of providence. It’s the Costa Concordia, she had thought, staring at the contents of her father’s desk drawer, but it seemed to her now that a ship was advancing through the darkness to save them and throw them a lifebelt.

Suddenly, she understood that she had not met this man by chance, on the Feast of Santa Rosalia. He had been sent to her. Heaven had heard her prayers and answered them.

There it was, the miracle she had been waiting for.

Smita

Tirupati, Andhra Pradesh, India

Tirupati! Tirupati!

A man in the carriage is calling out the next stop. Soon, the train will reach the station in Tirupati. The brakes screech on the rails. Immediately, pilgrims pour out onto the platform, laden with blankets, luggage, tin pots, provisions, flowers, offerings, children in their arms, old people on their backs. Everyone presses towards the exit leading to the sacred mountain. Caught in the tide, unable to resist the flow, Smita clutches Lalita’s hand. Terrified that her daughter might be swept away, she takes her in her arms. The station seethes like an anthill. There are tens of thousands of people here. People say the sanctuary receives 50,000 pilgrims every day, and ten times that on feast days. Everyone comes to honour Venkateswara, ‘Lord of the Seven Hills’, one of the forms of Vishnu. It is said he has the power to grant any request that is made in his presence. His huge statue lies within the temple sanctuary of Tirumala, at the top of the sacred hill, overlooking the town that spreads out at its foot.

Surrounded by thousands of ardent worshippers, Smita feels a kind of exaltation mingled with terror. She feels tiny, an insignificant speck in this crowd, like nothing she has ever experienced before. And at the same time, she shares their excitement. Everyone has come here in the hope of a better life, or to give thanks for some favour, a piece of good fortune: the birth of a son, the healing of a loved one, a happy marriage.