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When he had finished, Gaetano told Iofa to stop at the Osteria del Lavino, where he bought his coachman a plate of polenta with pork ribs because he deserved it, both of them did, and then they headed home so they could get back before dark.
    They were greeted in triumph. Almost all the men in the house came out to escort the cart to the loft and they had it unloaded in less than half an hour. Iofa, naturally, was invited for dinner.
    When the food had been served, Clerice said prayers and Callisto reminded them to take some soup and a glass of wine out to the stable to the umbrella mender, who still had shown no sign or intention of recommencing his wanderings.

CHAPTER THREE
    Before the end of January it snowed two more times, although little more than a dusting each time. When people grumbled, old Callisto would say: “Don’t complain! If it snows there’s a reason for it, and under the snow is your bread.” He was referring to the grains of wheat sown in the fall that were swelling and swelling, and would soon sprout and push a little plant out of the ground, bright green against the brown earth.
    Although it was usually mid-February before the first blade of grass would appear, hope hastened the course of the seasons and on the Feast of Our Lady, the second of the month, the women brought a candle to church and lit it in front of the image of the Virgin. They would say “On Candelmas Day / We wish the winter away.”
    But everyone knew February was not to be trusted because, as the sayings went, “short but wretched” and “the wolf hasn’t eaten up the winter” and “it can always show up again when you least expect it.”
    And sure enough it started to snow on Candelmas Day. Clerice went up to the bedroom of the two girls, Rosina and Maria, one seventeen and the other fifteen, to make sure they bundled up well and then, all three wrapped up in woolen shawls, they headed off to church. Rosina, who was the quickest, walked ahead of them, and Clerice could see that she’d put together a fine backside and high, wide hips and once spring came around with its light cotton dresses, there wasn’t a man in town who wouldn’t be turning his head as she passed.
    It was every mother’s terror: that a daughter might get pregnant. Men were quick at professing endless love to get what they wanted and then, once they’d got a girl in the family way, they’d vanish into thin air or say things like, “If she gave it to me, lord only knows who else she gave it to” and marriage was out of the question. But if the landlord found out, he could give the whole family notice and that was the end of that. They’d have until Saint Martin’s Day in November, and then the farmer, his wife and all their children would have to pack up whatever household goods they had on a cart and good riddance.
    It wasn’t rare to see that cruel scene actually happen. Entire families, men scowling and women weeping, would have to leave a house they’d lived in for many years and wander the country roads in the rain, searching for a vacant plot of land, working under any conditions in order to survive. That’s why the mothers never tired of repeating this lesson to their daughters and explaining exactly how and when it could happen: if you let him put it inside of you, nine months from now you’ll bring a bastard with no name into this world. Even if he just touches your thing with his, it can happen, understand? The mothers did their best but, although it seemed impossible, there was always some young girl who swallowed the bait.
    At the footbridge over the Samoggia, there was an old house that seemed abandoned. It was covered with wild creepers and no God-loving person would ever let himself be seen there during the day. The old woman who lived there was called Malerba, and she would use her knitting needle on girls who needed an abortion. Clerice would point