He had gone off to Corsica in a small sailing-boat he had, to attend to some business over there, and he never came back; he died of a three day fever, at the age of 38. However, he left his family comfortably off: his wife and two sons, Mattia (as I was and still am) and Roberto, who is two years older than me.

Some of the old people in the village still enjoy implying that my father’s wealth (which in any case ought not to weigh too heavily on them any more, as it has long since passed into other hands) had, shall we say, mysterious origins. They suggest that he won it at cards in Marseilles, in a game with the captain of an English merchant steamship, who, having lost all the money he had on him, which was a fair amount, also gambled a large cargo of sulphur which had been taken on board in far-off Sicily on behalf of a Liverpool trader (they know so much I wonder why they can’t supply his name!) who had hired the steamship. In despair, when he set sail, he drowned himself on the high seas. Thus the steamship docked in Liverpool relieved not only of its load of sulphur but also of its captain. He was lucky to have the spite of my fellow-villagers as ballast.

We owned land and some houses. My father was both sensible and adventurous, but he never had a firm base for his business: he was always out and about in his sailing-boat, buying merchandise of all kinds wherever he found the best deal, and reselling immediately; and in order not to be tempted into too large or risky enterprises, he gradually invested his earnings in land and houses here in his own little village, where he probably hoped eventually to be able to retire in peace and contentment with his wife and children amid the possessions so laboriously acquired.

First of all, he bought the land known as Le Due Riviere, which was rich in olive groves and mulberry trees. Then he bought the holding called La Stia, which was also very fertile and had a lovely spring which we used to power the mill. Then he bought the entire hillside called Lo Sperone which had the best vineyard in the county, and finally San Rocchino, where he built a charming villa. In the village itself, besides the house where we lived, he bought two other houses and the whole of the block which has now been run down and made into a dockyard.

His sudden death spelled our ruin. My mother did not feel capable of handling the organisation of the estate and had to entrust it to someone else. She chose a man who had been given so much by my father that his life had altered completely, and who she therefore considered ought to feel obliged to be slightly grateful to the family. The task would not have cost him anything apart from enthusiasm and honesty, since he was magnificently remunerated.

My mother was such a saintly woman. She was very reserved and inward-looking and had scant experience of life or people. She sounded like a child when she spoke. She had a nasal accent and laughed through her nose too, since she always felt embarrassed to laugh and kept her lips tightly shut. She had a very delicate constitution, and after my father’s death constantly suffered ill-health. However, she never complained of her problems, nor did she even worry about them herself I think, she just accepted them, resigned to them as a natural consequence of her misfortune. Perhaps she had thought she too would die, from sorrow, and so had to thank God for keeping her alive, however wretched and troubled, for the sake of her children.

She had an almost unhealthy attitude towards us, a tenderness made up of fear and trembling: we always had to be nearby, as if she feared losing us, and she often sent the maids round the vast house to search for us, if one of us had strayed a little distance.

She had abandoned herself blindly to her husband’s guidance and without him she was lost in the world. She never left the house except on Sundays, to go to mass in the nearby church, accompanied by two elderly maids, whom she treated like members of the family. Even in the house, she restricted herself to living in three rooms only, abandoning the others to the casual care of the maids and to our pranks. Those rooms, with their ancient furniture and faded curtains gave off that special odour that old things have, almost the breath of the past; and I remember more than once looking about me, strangely disturbed by the stillness and silence of those ancient objects, there for so long, unused and lifeless.

Amongst those who visited my mother most often was one of my father’s sisters, a tetchy spinster, dark and proud, with eyes like a ferret. However, she never stayed long, because she would suddenly fly into a frenzy in the middle of a conversation and disappear without saying goodbye to anyone. As a boy, I was terrified of her. I used to gaze at her, wide-eyed, particularly when she would leap to her feet furiously, stamping angrily on the floor and shouting at my mother:

“Can’t you hear there’s a cavity? It’s the mole! The mole!” She was referring to Malagna, who administered our affairs, and who she said was secretly digging out a tunnel beneath our feet.

Aunt Scolastica (as I found out later) was determined that my mother should marry again. Usually sisters-in-law do not think like this or give such advice. However, she had a harsh, proud sense of justice; and more for this reason, certainly, than for affection for us, she could not abide the idea that the man should steal from us like this and get away with it. Given my mother’s absolute ineptitude and blindness, she saw no other solution but a second husband. She also had someone in mind, a poor fellow called Gerolamo Pomino.

Pomino was a widower with one son, who is still alive, and is called Gerolamo like his father. He is a geat friend of mine, indeed more than a friend, as I shall explain shortly.