and she even blamed her own daughter for not being able to entice her uncle. Now that the old man is so clearly . sorry not to have made his niece the happiest woman in the world, that old witch might have cooked up any number of deceits.”

I stuffed my fingers in my ears, begging Mino to be quiet. It did not appear so, but fundamentally he was very naive. Now that I knew what had been going on in Malagna’s house, I felt the maid’s suspicions might be justified and for Oliva’s sake, I wanted to clarify things. I made Mino give me all the details about the witch. Mino told me to take care where the girl was involved.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t worry,” I replied, “I’ll leave her for you.”

The following morning, with the excuse of a bill of exchange which by chance my mother had told me fell due that day, I went to the widow Pescatore’s house to prize out Malagna.

I had been running and hurried in hot and sweating, on purpose.

“Malagna! The money!”

If I had not already known that he had a guilty conscience, I would definitely have realised then, seeing him spring to his feet, pale, confused, stammering.

“Wh…. what money?”

“This bill of exchange falls due today … My mother sent me. She’s very worried …”

Batta Malagna fell back into his seat exhaling all the fear which for a moment had gripped him, in an endless “ahhh” sound.

“It’s done, all done! Lord, what a fright you gave me! I’ve renewed it for three months and it pays for the fruit, you know that, don’t you? Did you really rush here for so little?”

He laughed and laughed, his belly rippling, and asked me to sit down, and introduced me to the woman.

“Mattia Pascal. Marianna Dondi, the widow Pescatore, my cousin. Romilda, my niece …”

He insisted that I should have a drink to quench my thirst after my rushing around.

“Romilda, perhaps you could ….” as if he were in his own home.

Romilda got up, glancing at her mother for guidance from her eyes, and a little later, in spite of my protests, she returned with a small tray on which stood a glass and a bottle of vermouth. As soon as her mother saw this, she got up, annoyed, and said to her daughter,

“Not that, not that! Give it here.” She snatched the tray out of her hands and went out, only to reappear shortly with another tray, this one lacquered, gleaming new and bearing a magnificent decanter: a silver elephant with a glass vessel on its back, and several small, clinking glasses hooked around its sides.

I would have preferred vermouth, but I drank the liqueur. So did Malagna and the mother, but not Romilda.

I did not stay long on that first occasion so as to have an excuse to go back: I said I was anxious to reassure my mother about the money and that I would return in a few days time when I had more leisure to enjoy the ladies’ company.

Judging from the way she said goodbye to me, I do not think that Marianna Dondi, the widow Pescatore looked forward to the idea of further visits of mine with much pleasure: she barely offered me her hand, and it was a chill, dry, gnarled, yellowish hand. She lowered her eyes and tightened her lips. However, her daughter made up for everything, with a friendly smile which promised a more cordial reception, and with a glance, both gentle and sad, from eyes which, from the moment I saw her, made a powerful impression on me. They were a strange colour, green, dark, intense, fringed by extremely long lashes: nocturnal eyes. Her hair was ebony-dark and wavy, and fell forward onto her brow and in two swathes around her face, emphasising the translucent pallor of her skin.

The house was modest; however, alongside the old furniture, new arrivals had already appeared, pretentious and clumsy pieces, ostentatiously and gaudily new. For example, two large majolica lamps, still unused, with strangely-shaped frosted glass globes, stood on a very humble sidetable with a yellowing, marble top, attached to a dull mirror in an oval frame peeling here and there and ugly as the wide-open mouth of a starving wretch. Then, standing in front of the ungainly sofa, was a little table with four gilded legs and a porcelain top, painted in extremely bright colours; then there was a Japanese lacquered cabinet and so on. Malagna’s eyes alighted on these new items with evident complacency, just as they had earlier rested on the decanter borne in triumph by the widow Pescatore.

The walls of the room were almost completely covered with old, not unattractive prints, some of which Malagna invited me to admire. He said they were the work of one Francesco Antonio Pescatore, his cousin, a most talented engraver (“died insane in Turin,” he added softly) and he was eager to show me his portrait.

“Painted with his own hands, on his own, in front of the mirror.”

A little earlier, comparing Romilda and her mother, I had thought that she must look like her father. Now, confronted with the portrait of this other man, I did not know what to think.

I do not want to make outrageous suggestions. I consider Marianna Dondi, the widow Pescatore, capable of anything, I admit; but how could any man, particularly a handsome man, fall in love with her? Unless he were mad, more mad than her husband.

After that first visit, I passed my impressions on to Mino. I spoke of Romilda with such warmth and admiration that his face instantly lit up; he was delighted that I had liked her so much and that he had my approval.

I then asked him what his intentions were; the mother, of course, was clearly a witch, but the daugher was honest, of this I was sure. There was no doubt about Malagna’s infamous designs, so it was imperative to rescue the girl as soon as possible.

Pomino wanted to know how, hanging on my every word, fascinated.

“How? We’ll see. First, we have to be certain about several things, investigate, check up. Clearly, we cannot take a decision on the spur of the moment. Leave it to me; I’ll help you. This is an adventure and it has taken my interest.”

“But…” objected Pomino, timidly, beginning to feel uneasy at my infatuation, “… you mean … maybe … marry her?”

“I’m not saying anything specific for now. Are you afraid?”

“No, why?”

“Because I think you’re in too much of a hurry.