“Can you sell the petroleum cans?”
“Ma certo, I get a paulo (ten cents apiece) for them. The poor use them for flower pots and for many other things.”
“And these old brooms, can you get anything for them?”
“The brooms I shall not sell. It would offend the scoparo, who is my friend and has a family to support; but as we happen to be in need of them, I will, with your permission, take these brooms home.”
“All the articles in this closet are yours, and welcome, on condition you take them away this evening. It is known to you that if Pompilia were here she would never let them go.”
“You have reason, Signora; I will go immediately, taking with me all I can carry and returning for the rest.”
After she left I went up to the terrace for the sunset. The swallows were swooping low overhead; the smell of the gardenias would have been overpowering indoors; the passion flower vine was in full bloom, the oleanders ablaze with tender pink blossoms the same color as the sky. As I was mooning about, leaning on the parapet and watching the blue fade out of Peter’s dome, I became aware of a hubbub in the street below. There were cries of “Una strega, una strega (A witch, a witch),” “Scacciala, scacciala (Chase her, chase her),” hoots of derision, screams of laughter.
“How she runs! Brava vecchiarella (Good for you, old woman)!”
“Viliacchi (Cowards)!”
The noise grew nearer, the crowd seemed to be stopping at our portone.