A Winter's Night by Valerio Massimo Manfredi, Christine Feddersen-Manfredi Page A

looked at that poor tortured boy hanging there on the cross and had to turn his eyes away.
    â€œIs it all right,” he asked the miller, “if I bring you the wheat tomorrow evening?”
    â€œNot before four o’clock,” replied the miller. “I’ve got lots of work to do.”
    Callisto walked out, his head thronging with terrible thoughts.
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    The grape harvest went well and everyone participated, the boys and the girls and even family friends and neighbors because in the end everyone got to take home a demijohn of wine and three flasks of must to boil up into a sweet grape syrup. The young men showed up willingly for another reason: when the women and girls crushed the grapes under their feet in the wine press, they had to pull up their skirts to move more freely and thus show off their thighs.
    And then there was the party held on the threshing floor, where everyone danced, with three musicians: an accordion player, a clarinet player and a guitar player. The boys had strung up a rope from one side of the courtyard to the other and hung any number of brightly-colored paper balls with candles inside to create glowing lights. Rosina was so beautiful that all the young men couldn’t keep their eyes off her, but even Maria, who was only fifteen years old, found a suitor: a young laborer from a family that came from San Giacomo, in the province of Bologna. His name was Fonso. He went up to Callisto and asked permission to dance with his daughter. “You can dance with her,” replied the old man, “but behave like a gentleman.”
    Fonso was not a looker. His chin was too square and he was already starting to go a bit bald, but he was a great talker, a rarity among the others his age, and the girls listened to him raptly. You could see that Maria was struck by him, although they’d just had a couple of dances together, and she spent the rest of the evening listening to him tell stories.
    Floti glared at the laborer with a look of distrust. “Who’s that?” he asked Checco.
    â€œA day laborer that the league sent over.”
    â€œDo you know him?”
    â€œI’ve talked to him. Seems like a good bloke. What I do know is that he’s one hell of a worker; gets more done than two or three combined.”
    â€œBut he’s getting all lovesick with our sister.”
    â€œThey’re just talking,” replied Checco. “He’s not going to eat her.”
    â€œI don’t like it. She’s only fifteen. I’m going to tell him to butt out.”
    â€œOh, leave him be. I don’t see why they can’t talk. Don’t worry, nothing will happen. But hey, if they do like each other, what’s wrong with that? The important thing is that he’s honest and a hard worker.”
    Floti didn’t say anything else, but he continued to keep his eye on the laborer the whole evening, until the musicians got up and passed around a hat, in case their listeners could afford a bit of generosity. The fact that a day laborer was dancing and chatting with his sister annoyed him; it was a question of standing, after all. Floti was the one offering work here, and the other was his subordinate; if a laborer didn’t find a job for the day, he didn’t eat. In any case, there were no further encounters between the two young men for a long time; there were no more big jobs that required hiring extra help, and if there had been, Floti would have found a way to avoid calling on Fonso.
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    For All Saints and All Souls the weather was cold and clear, and for Saint Martin’s Day as well. The leaves on the grapevines had turned red and yellow and the Lambrusco leaves were violet, a real treat for the eyes. The first snow appeared on the peak of Mount Cimone. Clerice told everyone to thank God that they had a roof over their heads, enough food and good wine, and to pray for those poor souls who had been turned out by their landlords and were