“Good-evening, Sor’ Giacomo, how goes it?”
“’Gnor, badly. Last night the wolves carried off the calf I was fattening for Christmas.”
“Where were the dogs?”
“They keep watch at the folds; the calf was at my cottage.” He counted the sheep as they filed through the wicket into the pen. “Vent’ uno, venti due; it is early for wolves, but—one understands it—yesterday I met the padre of Pesco Costanzi.”
“What has that to do with your calf or the wolves?”
Sor’ Giacomo shrugged his shoulders and went on counting his sheep. We understood: the priest of Pesco Costanzi has the “malocchio” (evil eye).
“How many are your sheep, Sor’ Giacomo?”
“Trenta (thirty), as you see.”
“It was not always so; formerly there were more?”
“’Gnor, si. When I was Francesco’s age my father had five thousand sheep in his care. In those days we of the Abruzzi raised wool for the whole kingdom, for the world, if you will. Now it is finished: these poor, miserable ones scarcely suffice to clothe Roccaraso.”