I don't want anything."

"Ah!" exclaimed Ciancarella with a yawn. "Ah! It's the priests, young man, the priests who have confounded your brain. They go about preaching that I don't believe in God, right? But do you know why? Because I don't give them anything to eat. So then, keep quiet; they'll get enough when they come to consecrate our shrine. I want it to be a splendid celebration, Spatolino. Why are you looking at me like that? Don't you believe me? Or do you want to know how the idea came to me? In a dream, my boy. I had a dream the other night. Of course, now the priests will say that God has touched my heart. Let them say what they wish, I couldn't care less! Now then, are we agreed, huh? Speak up... Snap out of it... Have you lost your wits?"

"Yes, sir," confessed Spatolino, extending his arms.

This time Ciancarella held his head with both hands so as to have a good long laugh.

"Fine," he then said. "You know how I do business. I don't want any sort of trouble. I know you're a fine worker and you do things properly and honestly. Handle it yourself, expenses and all, without bothering me. When you're finished we'll settle the account. As for the shrine... did you understand how I want it to be?"

"Yes, sir."

"When will you start the work?"

"As far as I'm concerned, even tomorrow."

"And when can it be completed?"

Spatolino hesitated a while to think.

"Well," he then said, "if it's to be as large as that, it'll take at least... what should I say?... a month."

"That's fine. Now let's go see the site together."

The land on the other side of the road also belonged to Ciancarella, who left it uncultivated and in a state of complete neglect. He had bought it so that he wouldn't be bothered by anyone who might want to live there in front of his villa. He allowed the shepherds to bring their small flocks to graze there, as if the land belonged to no one. Therefore it wasn't necessary to ask anyone's permission to build the shrine. As soon as the site had been established there, right in front of his gate, the old man went back into his villa, and Spatolino, left to himself,

began an interminable fififi fififi— fififi... Then he set off. He

walked and walked and finally found himself, almost without knowing how, in front of the door of Father Lagaipa, who was his confessor. Only after he knocked, did he remember that the priest had been sick in bed for the past several days. He should not have disturbed him with that morning visit, but the matter was serious, so he entered.

 

IV

Father Lagaipa was on his feet, dressed only in a shirt and trousers. He was cleaning the barrels of a shotgun right in the middle of the room, amid the confusion arising from the fact that his womenfolk, a maidservant and his niece, were unable to follow the orders he was giving.

His huge, fleshy nose, all covered with pockmarks like a sponge, seemed to have become even larger as a result of his recent illness.