wooden blinds, badly in need of a coat of paint at that. Then comes
a hiss from above.
‘Here I am, priest.’
Taking a step backwards, he gazes up into the face of an
old woman.
‘What did you say?’ he asks loudly.
‘Shhh!’ she hushes him, disappearing from the window.
Muffled footsteps on the inner stairs. The sound of a bolt
being thrown inside, and the door swings open.
‘So I was right. I thought I saw a priest down here. And
about time too!’ mumbles the old dame, and before Vivaldi knows
what is happening she has hold of his arm and is pulling him
inside. She shuts the door and darkness envelops them.
‘Follow me,’ she snaps peremptorily, leading the way
upstairs. The room she takes him to is dimly lit from the windows,
where the shutters are open a crack. The woman sits down at a
small table. There is only one chair, but she points with an arthritic
finger at a footstool for Antonio to sit on. The only other furniture
in the parlour is an old dresser; the plaster walls have not seen
whitewash for years and are beginning to peel.
The old woman opens fire on him at once. ‘So the church
has finally decided to do something about this dreadful situation,
has it?’
‘Would you be so kind, signora, as to explain to me what
exactly is going on?’ Unease and disorientation make his reply
sound impatient, but actually he is feeling unpleasantly confused.
The old woman sighs and lifts her arms heavenward. ‘What, again?
I’ve told Father Gianfranco so often about it all and he’s always
swearing something will be done. Now, what ARE you going to
do?’ Vivaldi taps nervously on the table with his fingertips. The one
thing he must, on no account, do is let her know how superficial
are his relations with the church. How long is it since he last
celebrated Mass? Not since his dispensation. He only continues to
wear the cassock because it gives him some standing in society.
But to be truthful with this old woman will surely ruin his
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