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any little thing that got into his hands. He would be a sage administrator of himself and his family. Before Raffaele was a week old, he was already grabbing and touching everything around him. He was the first to walk, and to talk as well. His place was certainly at the helm of the family, keeping his brothers together. He was just two when they started calling him by his nickname, Floti. Gaetano was the one who weighed most at birth, and he stayed big and voracious. You could tell from the start what he would be like: strong and fearsome, afraid of nothing. Armando was the first to laugh but then he’d cry for nothing. He would become the funniest, the one who would amuse them all with his stories and jokes, but also the most fragile. And Francesco—who everyone called Checco, because no one in town got away without a nickname—had barely cried when he was born, and when he could, he’d smile instead of laugh. He’d be a good observer of other people’s weaknesses and contradictions and never let on his own. And that’s the way it was with each one of them; they had their fate carved out for them. In a few years’ time, even the two younger ones, first Fredo and then even Savino, would turn twenty and they’d be old enough to be called up as soldiers. The girls in town were already stealing looks at them because, as the proverb says: “He who’s good to serve the king is good for the queen as well.”
    Â 
    Cleto, the umbrella mender, left one day after mid-March when he saw the first swallow enter the stable to tidy up the nest she’d abandoned in October. He slung his knapsack over his shoulder and said his goodbyes to Callisto and Clerice, the
arzdour
and
arzdoura
, patriarch and matriarch. Terms of archaic majesty that hinted at the Roman origins of their local dialect. The rule of the father and the rule of the mother.
    Clerice put a freshly-baked loaf of bread in his sack and filled his flask with wine, pronouncing words with a nearly sacred sound: “Remember us, umbrella mender, when you eat this bread and drink this wine, and much good may it do you!”
    â€œI thank you with all my heart,” he replied, “because you give without asking me for anything in return. I’m a man without a trade, a traveler with no destination. I carry heavy memories on my shoulders and I pay with my penury for the errors I have committed and have never dared to confess.”
    â€œWhy say such a thing, umbrella mender?” asked Clerice with concern. “You have given us so many stories, beautiful ones that make us dream and you know, dreams have no price. Our door is always open for you. And if there’s something you have to confess, you know that God Almighty forgives all.”
    Cleto seemed to hesitate, then said: “You have seven sons and I can feel the shadow of the tempest approaching . . . ”
    â€œExplain yourself,” Callisto broke in uneasily. “What do you mean by that?”
    â€œA catastrophe is on its way, a bloodbath the likes of which no one has ever seen. Annihilation. No one will be spared. There will be signs, warnings . . . Try not to let them fall unawares. God warned Noah about the flood and he saved himself and his family because he was an upright man. If there’s a good man on this earth, it’s you, Callisto, and your wife is your worthy companion. She will pray for your family to be spared and I hope that God will listen . . . ”
    The pearly sky of dawn was getting lighter. From the stable came the lowing of the cows and bulls and finally the rising sun touched the snow-covered flank of Mount Cimone, which blushed like the cheek of a virgin. The scent of violets permeated the clean morning air.
    â€œAs far as I’m concerned,” continued Cleto, “I already have my mission. Whether you believe me or not, I know that the apparition of the golden goat brings misfortune, and that wayfarer with