The widow, to put some space between them, took a step backwards, menacingly, as if she intended to brandish the rollingpin. So Aunt Scolastica picked up the large lump of dough from the board, grasped it in both hands, plastered it onto the widow’s head and pulled it down over her face, pushing it in with her knuckles, there, on the nose, there, into the eyes, the mouth, wherever it stuck. Then she gripped my mother’s arm and dragged her out.

What followed, I alone witnessed. The widow, roaring in her rage, tore the dough from her face and from her clogged hair and threw it in my face, but I was too helpless with laughter to care. She grabbed my beard and she scratched my face, then, half-crazed, she flung herself to the ground and started to rip her clothing, rolling hysterically on the floor; my wife meanwhile (excuse the expression) was retching in a corner, between shrill screams, whilst I begged the widow as she flailed on the floor:

“Your legs! Your legs! Please, please don’t bare your legs!”

Since then I learned to laugh at all my problems and illfortune. Suddenly I saw myself as an actor in the most foolish tragedy imaginable: my mother running away with a madwoman; my wife in worse condition; Marianna Dondi on the floor, and me, with no bread for the following day nor means of earning it, my beard plastered, my face scratched and streaming with blood or maybe tears of laughter, I was not sure which. I went to check in the mirror. They were tears, but I was also badly scratched. I really loved my strange eye at that moment. In its desperation, it had started looking around on its own account more than ever before. I ran out of the house, resolved never to go home again until I had found the means to support my wife and myself, however frugally.

I now felt angry with myself and despised my fecklessness over so many years, but this also easily convinced me that my misfortune was unlikely to inspire anyone with pity nor even vague concern, I had truly deserved my fate. One person only could feel sorry for me, the man who had stolen all our property; but there was no chance of Malagna feeling obliged to come to my aid after all that had happened between us.

Help, however, did come, and from the least likely quarter.

I stayed out all day, and towards evening I happened to meet Pomino, who pretended not to notice me, and tried to get away.

“Pomino!”

He turned, his face dark, eyes lowered.

“What do you want?”

“Pomino!” I cried, louder, shaking him by the shoulder and laughing at his sulkiness. “You can’t be serious!” Oh, the ingratitude of mankind! He thought he had a grudge against me, because he thought I had betrayed him. Pomino! Nor could I convince him that instead he had betrayed me, and he should not only thank me, but throw himself down prostrate and kiss the ground I walked on.

I was still drunk with the malevolent gaiety which had taken hold of me when I looked in the mirror.

“See those scratches?” I said. “She did it.”

“Ro…. I mean, your wife?”

“No, her mother.”

I told him why and how. He smiled, but drily. Perhaps he thought she would not have scratched him. He was in different circumstances than me, and had a different character.

I was then tempted to ask him why, if he was really so sorry, he had not married Romilda himself, perhaps eloping with her, as I had advised, before I had been unfortunate enough to fall in love with her myself, thanks to his ridiculous shyness or indecision. There was much I would have liked to say to him in the euphoric state I was, but I held back. Instead, I offered him my hand and asked him who he was seeing these days.

“No-one,” he sighed, “I’m bored to tears.”

The exasperation with which he uttered these words suddenly made me understand the real reason why Pomino was so distressed. Perhaps he did not regret the loss of Romilda in particular, so much as the company he now lacked. Berto was gone; he could not mix with me because of Romilda, so what was there left for him to do?

“Get married!” I said. “You’ll see how happy that makes you.”

But he shook his head, seriously, his eyes closed, and raised a hand:

“Never, never again.”

“Good for you, Pomino! You carry on like that! If you need a bit of company I’m at your disposal, even for the whole night, if you like.”

I told him of the resolution I had made as I left the house, and described the desperate plight I was in. Pomino was moved, like the real friend he was, and offered me the little money he had on him. I thanked him with all my heart, but said it would do no good: the following day I would be back where I started. I needed a permanent job.

“Wait!” exclaimed Pomino. “You know my father’s on the council now?”

“No, but I can imagine…”

“He is director of public instruction.”

“No, I wouldn’t have imagined that …”

“Yesterday, at supper….. Wait! Do you know Romitelli?”

“No.”

“Yes you do! The man that works in the Boccarnazza library. He’s deaf, almost blind, senile, can hardly stand up.