The family tableware had also gradually diminished: plates, trays, glasses, jugs … In the course of many years, as a result of moments of distraction or carelessness, the inevitable breakages had occurred, no matter how vigilant Leonia had tried to be. Now she was left with just a single bowl for herself: one which she had to use for everything, from soup to fruit. As for the master, he had two plates and a bowl at his disposal. Leonia was frequently obliged to wash one of these items during the course of a meal. There was a single glass: the very last, so she drank straight from the bottle. She feared for that glass more than anything: it was the source of an anxiety that disturbed her sleep. One night she dreamt that she had broken it, that it had slipped from her grasp, that the last glass of the Vai household had shattered into pieces – and woke with a start, thanking the Lord that it was only a dream. And a few days later, as luck would have it, the glass really had fallen on to the floor, without breaking or receiving a single scratch. Divine providence had intervened, surely it was on her side: there could be no doubt about it. Leonia silently recited a prayer, and considered the fall of the glass to be both a miraculous event and a warning from on high.

Then something extraordinary and unexpected happened.

Arriving home one lunchtime after a morning walk, Benedetto Vai appeared with an enormous bundle under his arm and deposited it with great care on the table in his room.

At this unprecedented, astonishing sight, Leonia gave a start.

For over twenty years the master had not once returned home with something in his hands. What on earth could the package contain? What was the meaning of an event such as this?

Having removed his hat and coat, Benedetto Vai devoted himself, beneath her gaze, to unfurling the bundle with the most extreme care. It contained twelve exquisitely beautiful antique glasses of remarkable thinness. They were engraved with hunting motifs, encircled and interwoven with infinitely graceful, delicate garlands of flowers and fronds, and were the product of sophisticated eighteenth-century Venetian craftsmanship.

What could such an acquisition mean? With whom had he negotiated their purchase? Where had he got them from? Who was going to use these twelve glasses? The silent one had evidently decided to open his mouth, and the spell was broken. And was he now on the verge of deciding to open up the house to someone else? To shatter the tragic solitude and the silence? Would the superhuman effort that the sacrifice had cost end up in nothing but a clinking of glasses? Perhaps even an extremely vulgar affair. Twenty years of silence would have been concluded with a bit of rowdiness: with a bit of merry-making. A real drinking session, perhaps, with some of those present ending up under the table. The woman felt like she was falling into a void. She felt tricked, deeply violated. And for the first time she felt like the victim of a madman. It had not been a deep-seated necessity arising from his nature and spirit that had led him to such extremes after all, but an intriguing experience, the caprice of a lazy man, a game conjured up by an empty mind, a joke in very bad taste. Who would turn up for a drink at the house of a misanthropist? And who, anyway, would someone like him have invited?