The priest’s eyes were drawn to the tin heart fastened on Tina’s shoulder bag. “That is of the old type that was done around here long ago. How do you happen to have it, signorina?”

“It was my great-grandmother’s.”

“Who was she?”

“Umbertina Longobardi.”

The old man’s eyes lit in recognition. “I have heard the name,” he said.

Tina felt a tremor of excitement at his recognition. So, she was part of the place, connected by the tin heart which had come from there.

“She immigrated to America with her husband,” Tina said. “And with others from this Village.”

“Yes,” said the priest, “they never come back. They left because of miseria and they forget the others still here in miseria.”

Tina flushed again, feeling the accusation. Now I’ve got guilt laid on me! Am I responsible? But how can I feel connected without the burden of responsibility? It all seemed too hard for her to resolve and her eyes darted around nervously, picking up the crone in the window, the staring children in the street. “I can’t bear it,” she muttered under her breath.

Ferruccio patted her arm protectively. “Easy, easy,” he said in English. Then, turning to the priest, he said, “You know, this village has all the potential to be an excellent resort. You’re in the Sila in a magnificent setting with good air, you have a stream, forests, ruins in the valley; all you need is someone enterprising to open an inn, a trattoria, an outdoor caffè. You must have someone in this village—someone like your grandfather was—who could start things going.”

“These people don’t see the place as you do,” the priest answered. “No one would believe they could make money here. They believe all they have to do to improve their lot is to go north.”

“What does the village need?” Ferruccio asked.

“We have nothing.”

“Is there a school?”

“Only the elementary classes.”

“May I send books?” said Tina.

“How could that help?”

“What do the people do?” Ferruccio continued.

“They leave; there is no work here.”

And it was true that nowhere were there goatherds or shepherds to be seen, farmers in fields, artisans, cobblers, or bakers. Nothing but chestnuts to be picked and sold at market.

Tina tried to imagine Umbertina and Serafino as they left Castagna a hundred years before. Would the road have been there in their time? Or, laden with bundles and holding on to children, would they have taken the footpath at the piazza down into the valley, then crossed the bridge over the stream and walked away forever?

Children had gathered in the road, looking over the Maserati; before getting in, Tina looked about desperately. If she couldn’t buy anything here, or send books, or relieve la miseria, she could at least drink from the fountain and taste the water that Umbertina had called for on her deathbed.