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The mule snorted, but then, as if encouraged by his master's words, he resumed his journey at full speed.
He had not yet reached the Mother Church when he heard himself being called again.
“Mr. Di Nardo, Mr. Di Nardo!”
A shiver ran down his spine: no one called him by his surname. Everyone in the village knew each other and called each other by their informal names, and, for a moment, he was afraid it might be the Marshal of the Carabinieri.
When he turned around, he saw a man in civilian clothes, elegant and with greasy hair. He was not a familiar face and addressed him with his usual reverence: “God bless you, to whom do I have the honour of speaking?”
The man nodded his head in cordial greeting, waited for Zi Peppe to get off the mule, approached him, and offered him his hand. “How do you do. I’m La Pinta, the town messenger.”
VI
Zi Peppe Pileri was face to face with the one person he had been trying to avoid all morning. In those interminable moments, he cursed those two glasses of wine drunk at the little shop. He thought that if he had left without delay, he might have avoided that unwelcome encounter. But it was too late. The town messenger was standing there, in front of him and his mule, and he had to address him.