It took the valley about thirty hours.
By Monday the co-operative’s driver was calling me signora instead of signorina, which he thought was a joke and which I have not forgiven him for. On Tuesday a woman I have known since I was six asked me, in the bread queue, whether I would be keeping the house or moving down to Pianello, and had to have it explained to her that a man kissing you behind a café does not come with an address change.
Ettore said one thing about it, on the Monday morning, with his hand on the side of the oak.
“I have known him since he was ten years old and I will not be asked about him in this village,” he said. “So do not expect me to have an opinion, padrona, because I have one and you would not enjoy it, and I am…
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