devil will send you to play jokes on old thieves, as this cockâs played one on you.
See how red his eye is, going round and round, his eyes are still burninâ with hell fire.
The poor old buffer began to weep.
He made the sign of the cross, then got furious. He reached for his gun and it wasnât there. My granddfather had hidden it first. Then he began to shake, and his teeth rattled as if he had caught a chill.
Then granâpop started a devilish conversation with the rooster. He asked questions in a foreign language, and answered in a different voice.
He paid no attention to the old peasant who begged for mercy, trembling before him and the rooster.
Iâm goinâ to die. I wanna confess. I donât wanna be damned. Intercede for me Mr. Rooster.
And he clasped his hands before the cock, and finally got down on his knees on the floor.
Then granâpop put a chair near him and put the rooster on it and then said: I am the Holy Ghost. Confess! Confess!
My granddad was right. The fig tree was too far from the boundary.
For fifty years our neighbor had taken the stones which came up
with digging and plowing, and carried them to the boundary, and thus his land had spread over a yard and a half all along the edge. His property had been cleared, fondled from one end to the other.
In his vineyard the wine was now better because the old buzzard has shaken up the earth, taken out stones, taken out the bad vines, rooted up strawberry grapes and planted columbine and aleatico grapes.
Now the Christian labourer was old and about to die. He was leaving a perfect vineyard to his family and was receiving from God the reward of his labours, the sight of the Apuleian holy ghost to whom he could confess his sins before getting ready to pass on . . . a divine favor.
Thatâs what my grandpop told him, and took him home late when the jag began to wear off.
On the way back we stopped near the fig tree. Grandpop paced off the distance to the boundary. I looked at the moon low over the sea. I saw the Ligurian hills and the roofs of the towns in the plain.
Two gun shots, one right after the other.
And the rattle of shot in the frosty grass between my bare feet, like the points of poison thorn, made me jump gasping: The old boy has shot himself!
No! he wanted to shoot us.
And granddad started down the boundary lane, talking of the frost that was bad for the vine shoots.
We passed the rest of that winter alone, granddad and I in the evenings with the light out.
I on the hearth stone, and grandpop on the straw stool, by the fire, the brand was of luminous olive wood and gave a lot of cinders and very little flame.
Long boring evenings ending with yawns so steady as to make young Buck weep, despite his being all ears and alert to hear the true fairy tales of his grandpop, illustrated by examples, coloured with pictures of clear poetry and somber drama; telling how the lunatics with whom he had lived twenty-four years fell in love with the new moon. They prepared curious wreaths of flowers for her, without leaves, five or seven kinds with the same number of unspotted petals, a real certo-sian and geometric field, studied and worked out lovingly with a smile on their lips, their eyes bright and absorbed.
And there are other nice lunatics so gentle they can call the birds with names you have never heard. Until they see birds in the sky, fabulous, all made of air, invisible and transparent. Others talked with the wind and with field flowers. Or they praised God from yearâs end to yearâs end, standing still in a corner with their eyes turned up to heaven and their arms folded.
Others have no use for talk, tongue doesnât work, they would stand mute for ages, guarding what secrets?
But if the lunatics had cut open their bellies for love . . . Or others, in sleep, stabbed with crazy jealousy had strangled those whom they ought to have loved all their lives, and now wept because they were dead,
See how red his eye is, going round and round, his eyes are still burninâ with hell fire.
The poor old buffer began to weep.
He made the sign of the cross, then got furious. He reached for his gun and it wasnât there. My granddfather had hidden it first. Then he began to shake, and his teeth rattled as if he had caught a chill.
Then granâpop started a devilish conversation with the rooster. He asked questions in a foreign language, and answered in a different voice.
He paid no attention to the old peasant who begged for mercy, trembling before him and the rooster.
Iâm goinâ to die. I wanna confess. I donât wanna be damned. Intercede for me Mr. Rooster.
And he clasped his hands before the cock, and finally got down on his knees on the floor.
Then granâpop put a chair near him and put the rooster on it and then said: I am the Holy Ghost. Confess! Confess!
My granddad was right. The fig tree was too far from the boundary.
For fifty years our neighbor had taken the stones which came up
with digging and plowing, and carried them to the boundary, and thus his land had spread over a yard and a half all along the edge. His property had been cleared, fondled from one end to the other.
In his vineyard the wine was now better because the old buzzard has shaken up the earth, taken out stones, taken out the bad vines, rooted up strawberry grapes and planted columbine and aleatico grapes.
Now the Christian labourer was old and about to die. He was leaving a perfect vineyard to his family and was receiving from God the reward of his labours, the sight of the Apuleian holy ghost to whom he could confess his sins before getting ready to pass on . . . a divine favor.
Thatâs what my grandpop told him, and took him home late when the jag began to wear off.
On the way back we stopped near the fig tree. Grandpop paced off the distance to the boundary. I looked at the moon low over the sea. I saw the Ligurian hills and the roofs of the towns in the plain.
Two gun shots, one right after the other.
And the rattle of shot in the frosty grass between my bare feet, like the points of poison thorn, made me jump gasping: The old boy has shot himself!
No! he wanted to shoot us.
And granddad started down the boundary lane, talking of the frost that was bad for the vine shoots.
We passed the rest of that winter alone, granddad and I in the evenings with the light out.
I on the hearth stone, and grandpop on the straw stool, by the fire, the brand was of luminous olive wood and gave a lot of cinders and very little flame.
Long boring evenings ending with yawns so steady as to make young Buck weep, despite his being all ears and alert to hear the true fairy tales of his grandpop, illustrated by examples, coloured with pictures of clear poetry and somber drama; telling how the lunatics with whom he had lived twenty-four years fell in love with the new moon. They prepared curious wreaths of flowers for her, without leaves, five or seven kinds with the same number of unspotted petals, a real certo-sian and geometric field, studied and worked out lovingly with a smile on their lips, their eyes bright and absorbed.
And there are other nice lunatics so gentle they can call the birds with names you have never heard. Until they see birds in the sky, fabulous, all made of air, invisible and transparent. Others talked with the wind and with field flowers. Or they praised God from yearâs end to yearâs end, standing still in a corner with their eyes turned up to heaven and their arms folded.
Others have no use for talk, tongue doesnât work, they would stand mute for ages, guarding what secrets?
But if the lunatics had cut open their bellies for love . . . Or others, in sleep, stabbed with crazy jealousy had strangled those whom they ought to have loved all their lives, and now wept because they were dead,
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