VIII
That night, in Mezzocannolo, Vincenzo Musumeci could not sleep. It was hot and the sirocco had arrived in the countryside too. The gusts of hot wind of the desert came and shook the shutters of the big country house. But this was not what kept him awake. It took two years for her to answer. But now, he was upset. He got out of bed, trying to make no noise and went downstairs to the library. He lit a lamp and pulled the letter from the pocket of his robe. He read it again.
Dear Vincenzo,
The long silence of these years, as arcane as the nature and origin of things, has been the center of my life and my memories of youth. Countless times I thought about my home, about the rolling hills, the green countryside, the smell of the sea. And every time, in those places, I could see you. I w
