Together, with a single movement, they threw their three branches. The green leaves settled gently on the varnished planks, as if, by magic, the oak coffin had come to life, blossomed, and turned green; and if it were left there, on the ground, without the marble cupboard being closed, then by next spring the planks would have turned into a tree-trunk, roots would sprout, acorns would grow, and ospreys would nest there. Behind them, Clotilde and Orsu now came forward hand in hand. Brother and sister reunited by the fate that perhaps regretted having left them as orphans. They held just a single branch between them, supported by the only hand that Orsu could use, the right one, as if they were a pair of lovers joining their fingers around a single flower.

After them, everyone followed.

A mountain of cut branches piled up; the bare old oak had offered every shade of green, from moss to jade, from lichen to opal, as if, indifferent to the black of the mourners’ clothes and the white of the crypt, it wished only to challenge the blues of the Mediterranean and the reds of La Revellata’s rocks.

Among the anonymous crowd and the officials whose faces and ranks she often didn’t know, Lisabetta recognised certain faces that were dear to her, or whose stories she had learned, stories that were linked to her own.

Anika stood by the grave for a long time, inconsolable. In that same cemetery, accompanied by a crowd a tenth of the size, she had buried her husband. Lisabetta had discussed the situation with her at length, advising her to stay as the head of the Euproctes campsite. She would see, she would see …

Maria-Chjara Giordano was beautiful and dignified, dressed all in black, from her sunglasses to her shoes, from the lace covering her sober cleavage to the two bodyguards on either side of her.

Franck threw his branch modestly, quickly, discreetly, then stood aside, leaving Valentine there on her own. She stood motionless, for an eternity, her eyes blank, not crying, as if she were trying to see right through the planks of the coffin. To see her past. Her father had to tug slightly on her sleeve before she would move away.

At last Aurélia arrived, on the arm of Cesareu Garcia. The sergeant was the only guest who hadn’t been made to wait at Arcanu, walk along the path, climb to the mausoleum, but even so the retired policeman’s dark shirt was covered with dry, white patches of sweat.

Aurélia walked back on her father’s arm, smiled at Lisabetta, then stared out to sea.

Everyone was there.

Only Natale had refused to come.

~