It was frequently the case at this time that Concetta’s dainty shoes, and those of her sisters as well, were down-at-heel. I would notice this when she was kneeling in church. I could not see her eyes, but I knew that they would be directed towards the altar like two tiny larks taking flight towards the sun. Concetta had numerous sacred images, given to her by the nuns, and she would spend all day in contemplation of them. One of these showed a graceful young novice, no longer wearing the habit of a nun but bedecked in exquisitely brocaded vestments, extending her hand towards an affable-looking, chubby-cheeked infant who, given the golden aura that crowned his head, was none other than the Baby Jesus. With a loving smile he was placing a gold wedding ring on her plump index finger; while, suspended above them, an angel in a tunic covered in precious gems was depositing a garland on her head. In another image there was an extremely tall colonnade covered with unfolding edifying scenes, in front of which a humble nun was holding the hand of the Lord of Heaven. A venerable old man dressed as splendidly as a Pope was witnessing these nuptials, gently urging the little virgin with a gesture towards her spouse. The nuns would explain to Concetta that the precious colonnade in the background was nothing less than the entrance to the ‘mansion’ (for they were prone to express themselves in such terms) – the mansion into which she would be welcomed as a young bride. Churches, explained the nuns – even those cathedrals glittering with mosaics – are merely God’s houses on earth. Imagine then what His heavenly mansions must be like in comparison. The floors are carpeted with meadows of flowers, but these flowers are made of precious stones. In the gardens, angels with the wingspan of eagles fly about instead of birds, producing a melodious sound with the beating of their wings. Life passes there with continuous music, dances and smiles of love. Angels hidden amongst the trees, like shepherds, sing the praises of the young bride. Others bring her regal vestments, others still slip elaborately decorated sandals on to her feet. She needs only to raise a finger and the whole of paradise will fall silent and listen to her.

Concetta glowed with pride on hearing such promises; every day she would flee her home to visit the nuns, and as soon as she came of age she entered the convent. I was out of town at the time, so was not present when she took her vows, in a ceremony that her mother and sisters refused to attend. When I returned, her sisters whispered to me a warning that she was never to be spoken of again in front of her mother; Angela had sworn that, as far as she was concerned, her daughter had ceased to exist. She did mention her to me, on just one occasion. She placed a hand on her heart, and with dark eyes and the portentous tone of someone about to pronounce an anathema, she said: ‘My whole heart was devoted to that daughter of mine; and now, where my heart used to be, there is nothing but stone.’ Then she flung a glance of haughty commiseration in the direction of her other two daughters, who were both short and stout, with lank hair and thick, coarse hands.