“Good night!”
Turlendana entered unconcernedly, unmindful of the curious attention of the drinkers sitting beside the long tables. Having asked for something to eat, he was conducted to an upper room where the tables were set ready for supper.
None of the regular boarders of the place were yet in the room. Turlendana sat down and began to eat, taking great mouthfuls without pausing, his head bent over his plate, like a famished person. He was almost wholly bald, a deep red scar furrowed his face from forehead to cheek, his thick greyish beard extended to his protruding cheek bones, his skin, dark, dried, rough, worn by water and sun and wrinkled by pain, seemed not to preserve any human semblance, his eyes stared into the distance as if petrified by impassivity.
Verdura, inquisitive, sat opposite him, staring at the stranger. He was somewhat flushed, his face was of a reddish colour veined with vermilion like the gall of oxen. At last he cried:
“Where do you come from?”
Turlendana, without raising his head, replied simply:
“I come from far away.”
“And where do you go?” pursued Verdura.
“I remain here.”
Verdura, amazed, was silent.