'What?' she replies, and passes shaken and dilated and brilliant,
consciously ignoring him, passes away among the others, among those
who are safe.
There is food in the kitchen, great hunks of bread, sliced sausage that
Maria has made, wine, and a little coffee. But only the quality come to
eat. The peasants may not come in. There is eating and drinking in the
little house, the guitars are silent. It is eleven o'clock.
Then there is singing, the strange bestial singing of these hills.
Sometimes the guitars can play an accompaniment, but usually not. Then
the men lift up their heads and send out the high, half-howling music,
astounding. The words are in dialect. They argue among themselves for a
moment: will the Signoria understand? They sing. The Signoria does not
understand in the least. So with a strange, slightly malignant triumph,
the men sing all the verses of their song, sitting round the walls of
the little parlour. Their throats move, their faces have a slight
mocking smile. The boy capers in the doorway like a faun, with glee, his
straight black hair falling over his forehead.
Pages:
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178