XXXV
The fever had troubled him for a week and refused to grant him reprieve. Vincenzo Musumeci's teeth were chattering from the intense cold. Fortunately, the installation of the mill had been completed, the plant milled for twenty-four hours, and the bins were full of grain. Only this mattered.
Tomorrow I'll be better and go to work. I cannot rest and read novels anymore, he thought. He repeated the same words every night, but then postponed his return to work every morning.
The light hit the shutters and the singing of the peasants rose from the streets of the countryside. Vincenzo lifted the covers and put his feet on the floor. Once up, the room began to spin. Taken by this vortex, he flung himself down. The darkness became total.
Cocò Bonsignore arrived, running from the path tha
