He spoke with insolent detachment. To him I was apparently something less than a cockroach, more like a dust mote whirling aimlessly in a sunbeam. And yet the calm voice, precise speech and use of the familiar tu radiated the serenity of a Platonic dialogue.

‘My name is Paolo Corbera. I was born in Palermo, where I also took my law degree. Now I work here for La Stampa. To reassure you, Senator, let me add that on my exit exams I earned a “5 plus” out of 10 in Greek, and I suspect that the “plus” was only added to make sure I received my diploma.’

He gave a half smile. ‘Thank you for telling me this. So much the better. I detest speaking with people who think they know what they in fact do not, like my colleagues at the university. In the end they are familiar only with the external forms of Greek, its eccentricities and deformities. The living spirit of this language, foolishly called “dead,” has not been revealed to them. Nothing has been revealed to them, for that matter. They are poor wretches, after all: How could they perceive this spirit without ever having had the opportunity to hear Greek?’

Pride is fine, sure, it’s better than false modesty, but it seemed to me the senator was going too far. I even wondered whether the years might have succeeded in softening somewhat his exceptional mind. Those poor things, his colleagues, had had just as much opportunity to hear Ancient Greek as he had – that is, none.

He went on: ‘Paolo, you’re lucky to bear the name of the one apostle who had a bit of culture and a smattering of reading under his belt. Though Jerome would have been better. The other names you Christians carry around are truly contemptible. The names of slaves.’

I was disappointed again. He really seemed like nothing more than a typical anticlerical academic with a pinch of Fascist Nietzscheism thrown in. Could it be?

He voice rose and fell appealingly as he continued to speak, with the ardour, perhaps, of someone who had passed a great deal of time in silence. ‘Corbera … Is that not one of the great names of Sicily, or am I mistaken? I remember that my father paid the annual rent for our house in Aci Castello to the administrator of a House of Corbera di Palina, or Salina, I can’t recall which. He’d always joke and say that if there was one thing that was certain in this world, it was that those few lire weren’t going to end up in the pockets of the “demesne,” as he called it. But are you one of those Corberas, or just a descendant of some peasant who took his master’s name?’

I confessed that I really was a Corbera di Salina, the sole surviving specimen, in fact. All the opulence, all the sins, all the uncollected rents, all the unpaid debts, all the political opportunism of the Leopard were concentrated in me alone. Paradoxically, the senator seemed pleased.