Indiritto had worked as a porter on the docks of Mazara del Vallo since he was only seven years old. Now, at thirty-seven, he already felt the effects of decades spent on his feet, using his hands and arms to lift and carry large crates, and relying on the strength of his heart to carry him through every grueling day until the next one began, as usual, before dawn.
He had been born into a poor family. His father, Augusto had produced thirteen children, four by his first wife who died in childbirth along with the fifth child, and nine by his second wife, Marie. None of them had lived well, getting by on the pittance that Augusto made by labor on the docks. But he taught his sons how to work so that they wouldn’t starve.
Marie came from Algiers, fleeing that city as a girl of fourteen when
