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occupied the entire Piazza del Castello.
    Although the day was gray and somewhat windy, it didn’t look like it was going to rain. The townsfolk wore their Sunday best, the women abandoning their everyday black and wearing their most elegant, colorful dresses.
    Mena wandered from one booth to another with the joy and curiosity of a child let loose in toyland. It was hard for chubby Nennella to keep up with her, and she sometimes let Mena get ahead of her a little, content to merely keep an eye on the girl from afar while she took a rest, leaning against a doorway.
    That morning, even the barbershop had closed for the holiday, and Saro was enjoying the day off. Like all the young men in Salemi, he knew that the market drew girls like honey, and he strolled through the stalls glancing here and there, in the hope of meeting Rosario Losurdo’s daughter again.
    Since the day of Davide Zevi’s suicide at town hall, Saro had done nothing but think of her, her thick black hair, her eyes shining like emeralds. So it was no coincidence that the two eventually found themselves side by side, rummaging through the antique objects of a secondhand dealer. Their hands brushed as they went to pick up the same Art Nouveau figurine of a veiled vestal.
    Mena politely withdrew hers first. “Oh, sorry—”
    â€œMena.”
    The girl looked at Saro’s face, and her eyes lit up with pleasure. “Oh, Saro.”
    They shook hands for an unreasonably long time. “Hi, I’m glad to see you again,” the boy said with a smile.
    â€œI never thanked you for what you did,” Mena said in a ringing voice.
    Saro felt his heart leap into his throat. “Don’t mention it; it was nothing.”
    â€œThat poor man could have killed us all.” Then she burst out laughing, covering her mouth with her delicate hand. “There I was on the floor with a man on top of me. I saw Nennella’s eyes—she was about to have a stroke.”
    â€œI did the first thing that occurred to me,” Saro said in excuse.
    But Mena was still smiling. “Yes, but you didn’t jump on Nennella to save her, and she was right next to me. Clever, hmm?” Mena touched him affectionately on the shoulder.
    The contact once again thrilled him, and Mena was aware of it. “Go on, I’m joking, silly. Saro Ragusa, don’t tell me you’re touchy?”
    Actually, he was very embarrassed. “Of course not,” he lied, feeling exposed.
    â€œBut wait.” From the pocket of his cheap wool jacket, he pulled out the ID. “This is yours; you lost it in the confusion.” Mena’s eyes widened, and possibly she overdid her show of happy surprise. “My ID card! I thought I would have to get another one! You really are my guardian angel!” She clapped her hands delightedly and then took the document from Saro. She saw that with it was a slip of paper, folded in two.
    â€œOh! Oh! What’s this?” She took it and opened it up, discovering that it was one of the tombola tickets. She was ready to hand it back, not realizing that Saro had intended it as a gift. However, Saro was no longer in front of her. She searched for him among the crowd, but he had disappeared. Instead, she saw Nennella coming toward her.
    â€œWas the young man you were talking to Saro?” she asked in the tone of an inquisitor.
    â€œHe brought back my ID card. He found it.”
    â€œGood thing. That way we won’t have to get another one,” the governess replied distractedly.
    Mena hid the bingo ticket in her hand and continued strolling among the stalls.
    At precisely noon, the saint’s heavy baldachin was carried out of the doors of the church, not without some difficulty. It was borne on the shoulders of sixteen of Salemi’s most robust men. Around her neck, Saint Faustina wore a necklace of dried figs along with many five- and ten-lira bills. In front of her, the florid figure of