Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XXVII. Summer
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the island. All my household was overjoyed to
welcome me home.
Yes, all was well at San Michele, grazie a Dio.
Nothing had happened in Anacapri, as usual
nobody had died. The parroco had sprained his
ankle, some people said he had slipped when
descending the pulpit last Sunday, others said it
was the parroco of Capri who had made him
mal’occhio, everybody knew the parroco of Capri
had the evil eye. Yesterday morning the
Canonico Don Giacinto had been found dead in his bed
down in Capri. The Canonico had been quite
well when he went to bed, he had died in his sleep.
He had been lying in state during the night before
the High Altar, he was to be buried with great
pomp this morning, the bells had been ringing
since daybreak.
In the garden the work had been going on as
usual. Mastro Nicola had found another testa
di cristiano when knocking down the cloister
wall, and Baldassare had come upon another
earthenware jar full of Roman coins while taking
up the new potatoes. Old Pacciale who had been
digging in my vineyard at Damecuta took me
aside with an air of great mystery and
importance. Having ascertained that nobody
overheard us, he produced from his pocket a broken
clay pipe black with smoke, it might have
belonged to some soldier of the Maltese regiment
who camped at Damecuta in 1808.
“La pipa di Timberio!” said old Pacciale.
The dogs had had their baths every midday
and their bones twice a week according to the
regulations. The little owl was in good spirits.
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