Tossati, having overdone it, fell asleep. His hand dropped lazily on the table, pulling off the hat from his leaden head. At some moment his body, overpowered by drink, slid from the bench and fell heavily to the floor. The gravedigger didn’t wake up; intoxicated sleep overpowered him completely. The good-natured mask, hitching against the table leg, slipped off his face and rolled under the chair with a soft rustle. None of this was noticed in the general tumult, and Giovanni slept in peaceful delight under the bench, undisturbed by anyone. But when the inn emptied around two and only the black brotherhood of death remained, the well-dressed customer lying under the bench attracted the curious glances of the last revellers.

‘That rascal really got drunk! Let’s take a look at him in the light!’

‘We’ll see whose mama’s boy it is!’

‘Some rich merchant or cavaliere – a man about town in pursuit of adventure. Come on, let’s get him out from under that bench!’

Several eager hands stretched out toward the sleeper and laid him on his back. But when they saw the face of the drunken man, everyone recoiled simultaneously. The cemetery men’s eyes were lit up in horrified amazement. Because the body of the stranger, attired in elegant, soft garments, had a corpse’s head. The deeply sunken eyes stared out with what seemed cold death; the yellow, shriveled skin merged with the tint of the jutting cheek bones; the hairless, earless skull shone with the smoothness of glazed tibias … .

A vague murmur ran through the group. The affair made them uneasy. The first one to ‘get his wits about him’ was Randone:

‘What kind of stupid joke is this! Which one of you dug out this corpse for this masquerade? Well, speak up while you still have the chance!’

Silence. They glanced at each other in astonishment, not understanding what this was all about. No one pleaded guilty.

‘Ha!’ resumed Randone, ‘we’ll let it go for the time being; we’ll deal with the joker later on. Now let’s take this body on our shoulders while there is still time and head straight for the cemetery! In two hours it’ll be daybreak – we have to hurry before it gets light. If the town hears of this, we’re done for!’

Silently they carried out the order. Six men raised Tossati and, placing him on their shoulders, made their way out toward the cemetery. They went quickly, glancing about in apprehension in case someone was watching. They didn’t pay attention to the mud spattering them up to their knees as they sloshed through puddles of rainwater. A strange fear and their leader’s command drove them on – or someone else’s command, or an internal necessity. They didn’t speak; they didn’t feel the unusual temperature of the body; they didn’t notice that the hands of the corpse still hadn’t rotted; they didn’t for a moment pay attention to the difference between the state of the head and the rest of the body. Just as long as they moved forward, as quickly as possible, so as to be finished with the whole affair!

They plunged into the cool paths of the cemetery; they passed the main road, crossed several side ones, and turned right, amongst the fresh graves. Here, beside a jasmine tree hidden by thickets, they stopped and lowered Tossati to the ground.

‘To your shovels,’ resounded the quiet order of Peter Randone.

They briskly grabbed the handles and began to scoop out wet lumps of earth.

In fifteen minutes the grave was already deep.

Randone spoke again. ‘To the bottom with him!!’

Tossati didn’t budge, he didn’t stir; he slept soundly.

Eager black hands hurled him into the hole. The thud of the dropped body merged with the impact of shovels throwing back the earth. The men worked with rare fervour, as if in a mad race. In several minutes the hole was filled up. Freshly carried and hastily packed-down earth topped off the grave.

Then the group breathed freely.