The widow Pescatore, fearing that my mother and I might shortly have to live on the tiny income from Romilda’s dowry, became gloomier and more unpleasant as the days went by. I expected at any moment an outbreak of the fury that, perhaps out of respect for my mother, had been contained for too long. Seeing me drifting aimlessly about the house, she tossed me hostile glances, stormy portents of the impending tempest. I would go out, to try to cut off the current and prevent the charge earthing; but then I would fear for my mother and come back home.

One day however, I was too late. The storm finally broke, and on the most flimsy of pretexts: the visit of two of my mother’s former servants.

One of them had not been able to save any money, as she had been obliged to support a daughter, a widow with three children, and she had immediately found a post elsewhere. The other, Margherita, was more fortunate, and, alone in the world, was now able to retire in her old age, living off the pittance she saved up over so many years in service in our house. It would seem that my mother gently complained to these good women, trusted friends of many years’ standing, of her bitterly reduced circumstances. Margherita was a good old soul and had already suspected that mother might be unhappy but dared not say so. She immediately offered mother a home with her: she had two clean rooms and a flower-bedecked terrace that overlooked the sea. They would be together, in peace, and she would be pleased to serve her again, to show her the affection and devotion she still felt for her.

But how was my mother to accept the poor old lady’s offer? In fact, this is what incurred the widow Pescatore’s wrath.

When I came in, I found her, fists clenched in Margherita’s face. Margherita nevertheless was standing up to her courageously, whilst my mother, terrified, eyes filled with tears and trembling all over, was clinging to the other old lady, as if trying to protect herself.

Seeing my mother like that made me instantly blind with fury. I grabbed the widow Pescatore by one arm and sent her tumbling across the room. She recovered in a flash and rushed at me, but stopped dead just in front of me.

“Out!” she screamed. “You and your mother, out! Get out of my house!”

“Listen,” I said, my voice trembling from the violent effort I was making to control myself, “listen, you go, now, on your own two legs, and don’t get in my way any more. Go, for your own good, go!”

Romilda, crying and wailing, leapt up from the armchair and threw herself into her mother’s arms:

“No! You stay with me, mum! Don’t leave me, don’t leave me here alone!”

However, she was rewarded with the following kindly reply, delivered in furious tones:

“You wanted him. You keep him now, the crook! I’m leaving alone.”

But of course, she stayed where she was.

Two days later, Aunt Scolastica, in a rage as usual, and sent, I suppose by Margherita, came to take my mother away. This scene is worth describing in full.

That morning, the widow was making bread, her sleeves rolled back, her skirt hitched up and looped round her waist, so as not to get dirty. She glanced over her shoulder and saw my aunt enter but continued to sieve the flour, unconcerned. My aunt was not bothered either; apart from anything else, she had come in without announcing her arrival to anyone. She made straight for my mother, as if there were no-one else in the house but her.

“Come on, get dressed, we’re going. I felt in my bones something was wrong and here I am. Come on. Quickly. Get your things.”

She spoke in brief bursts. Her hooked nose, proud in her dark, yellowish face, quivered and she wrinkled it disdainfully from time to time, and her eyes sparked.

The widow was silent.

She stopped sieving, mixed in the flour, made a dough and now proceeded to hold it high and slam it down hard, on purpose, onto the board. This was her reply to my aunt. Aunt Scolastica accordingly repeated her instructions. The widow continued slamming down the dough, harder and harder.

“Yes! – Of course! – Why not? – Certainly!” Then, as if this were not enough, she went to fetch the rolling pin and placed it next to the board, as if to say: “I have this as well.”

If only she had not done that. Aunt Scolastica leapt to her feet, tore her shawl from her shoulders, tossed it across to my mother and said,

“Here you are! Leave everything. Let’s go.”

She then moved square up to the widow, and stood face to face.