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“Peppe, you forgot to mark the bread with the cross before cutting it! What’s wrong with you? You’ve gone off the deep end! Don’t forget that the daily bread is God’s blessing!”

Zi Peppe sank the dripping spoon into his plate and looked up at Nunzia. “That old goat of Mena of Bolo cast the evil eye on me!”

“I can’t believe it... do you still believe in curses?”

“Shit, Nunzia, you still believe in priests, don’t you? And I believe in curses!”

“Don’t swear in front of the kids, and don’t insult the Church, as usual! And what curse did that poor woman cast to you? Let’s hear it…”

“She told me they’re calling soldiers to the war and that Ture might be…”

“That motherfu–” Nunzia winced, covering her mouth before uttering other insults.

“Tomorrow, if I see her at the trough, I’ll tell her off! She must leave my son Ture alone!”

Zi Peppe appeased her, and they both ate the last meal of the day in silence. It was a great relief that, at least for that evening, at the table, Ture was not there. He had gone to work for a week in Bronte.