The situation had reached such a point that if a word, or even a syllable, had escaped unwittingly or by mistake in Benedetto Vai’s home, it would have been tantamount to an apocalyptic event: the end of an epoch, the collapse of an entire world.

Outside of his domestic shell, Benedetto Vai adopted such extreme reserve that no one would have dared to approach him with a greeting, or any other word for that matter; and if on occasion some inconsiderate or ignorant soul did so, he would squeeze his lips together and widen his large blue eyes to fix the culprit with such a look as to induce them to lower their gaze and seal their lips. And if by chance anyone should happen to ask him for directions in the street, they would surely conclude that they had spoken to a deaf person.

Leonia, too, would play her part. If someone stopped and looked as if he was about to say something, she would raise an index finger in a solemn gesture and place it over her lips, like a bar across her mouth and face.

Nor should we assume that she had ended up going to such lengths easily, though we choose not to pursue here the intimate reasons behind her willing acceptance of what, for a woman, was a most inhuman sacrifice. She had met her master when he was young and handsome. And Benedetto Vai had been an exceptionally handsome young man, with his blond hair and big eyes that seemed to mirror the sky. Now he was a distinguished elderly gent: tall, slim, with an athletic, straight-backed body and eyes that were still like those of a child. She was unacquainted with any echo of the voice he had kept locked within himself, and his irascibility had fascinated her from the start. To have followed him to the very limit of his desperate plan was an act of extraordinary devotion to duty – as well as, subconsciously, an act of passionate love.

On one occasion, to force him to speak, she had added four times the usual amount of salt to his soup. As soon as he raised the spoon to his lips, he returned the bowl to her with such a heartfelt look that she bitterly regretted what she’d done. Another time, to force him to utter something – even a scream – she had stuck a needle in the seat of his chair. Once again the look that the master gave – so pure and doleful, though not on account of being pricked by a needle – caused her to lower her head, full of shame and remorse, to plead for his forgiveness. He seemed to understand the harshness of the trial this woman was being subjected to; he showed that he understood her and pitied her, and was on hand to support her through moments of weakness or doubt. Many were the times when, subjected to temptations like those which saints must endure, she was on the verge of breaking the spell; of giving, after so much constraint, free rein to a torrent of shouting, laughing and singing. She remembered an old rhyming proverb that fitted her case exactly, and would have justified such behaviour to the entire neighbourhood. Yet she was pleased, afterwards, to have conquered the urge. If it had been a woman demanding such a sacrifice from her, however, it was clear that Leonia’s tongue would have worked like a windmill, like the propeller of a plane.