“Sicilian Limes” (“Lumìe di Sicilia”)

Translated by Howard Curtis

How to cite this work:

Pirandello, Luigi. “Sicilian Limes” (“Lumìe di Sicilia”), tr. Howard Curtis. In Stories for a Year, eds. Lisa Sarti and Michael Subialka, Digital Edition, www.pirandellointranslation.org, 2023.

Originally published in two issues of the literary journal Il Marzocco, respectively on May 20 and 27, 1900, “Sicilian Limes” (“Lumìe di Sicilia”) was included two years later in the collection of selected short stories When I Was Crazy (Quand’ero matto), printed by the Turin-based publisher Streglio in 1902/1903. In 1926, the story became part of The Old God (Il vecchio Dio), the tenth Collection of Stories for a Year (Novelle per un anno).

Building on a popular icon of Sicilian culture—the lumía, a yellowish, tangy fruit from a citrus tree characterized by pink, fragrant flowers—Pirandello crafts a story of nostalgia, love, and bitter loss. Sicily itself, portrayed as a land of poverty, patriarchal moral codes, and obedience to the principles of peasant honor, provides the perfect background for the characters to live out their struggles with personal ambition, lack of financial resources, and pride. As the story begins in medias res, humble band player Micuccio Bonavino has just arrived in a large city (presumably Naples) from his rural Sicilian town; he is there to visit Teresina, the girl he loved and aided years earlier in cultivating her singing talent by paying for her musical instruction. In Pirandello’s works, the topos of a train ride from rural, traditional Sicily to the modern mainland often represents the emotional displacement undergone by a character, whose identity can become multiple or conflicted: see for example, “The Journey” (“Il viaggio,” 1910) and, in a different but related vein, “The Train Has Whistled” (“Il treno ha fischiato,” 1914). Here, though, Pirandello takes that theme further, emphasizing the toll of geographical change on personal relationships together with the economic and social aspirations that geography signals and in some sense carries out. Teresina’s newly acquired wealth catches her former lover off guard, and he proves unable to reconcile his image of the poor girl he loved with that of the successful and more “worldly” singer she has now become. By toying with the power of memory and time to transform people and emotions, Pirandello anticipates the ideas that will be central in later stories, such as “Far Away” (“Lontano,” 1902), “Either of One or of No One” (“O di uno o di nessuno,” 1911), “Our Memories” (“I nostri ricordi,” 1912), and “Return” (“Ritorno,” 1923). The characters in all of these tales struggle to accept that their mental images of a person no longer correspond with who that person has become. In contrast to this anticipation of later works, “Sicilian Limes” features a finale that deviates from other stories where the plot focuses on the characters’ rage at and hostility towards fate for their bad luck, elements that we see in “The Imbecile” (“L’imbecille,” 1912), “Bobbio’s Hail Mary” (“Bobbio’s Hail Mary,” 1912), and “The Trap” (“La trappola,” 1915). Micuccio, in contrast, endures the loss of his naïve dreams of love with solemn dignity, making him the perfect humble hero who earns the author’s sympathy for remaining true to his traditional moral values, without becoming dazzled by the richness and glory the urban space can lure one into. Even the titular Sicilian limes that Micuccio had brought for Teresina end up going only to her mother, the old Aunt Marta he had supported during their difficult earlier years and with whom he shares the same traditional, rural principles and mores. In Micuccio’s eyes, Aunt Marta is ultimately the only one worthy of receiving this emotionally charged gift.

In 1910, “Sicilian Limes” was adapted into a one-act play with the same title and performed together with The Vise (La morsa) at the Teatro Metastasio in Rome under the direction of Nino Martoglio, the Sicilian playwright and producer who was also a close friend of Pirandello’s. This performance officially inaugurated Pirandello’s involvement with the professional theatre, a passion he would go on to cultivate for the rest of his life, eventually overshadowing his career as a prose writer. In 1915, Sicilian Limes was staged in Sicilian at the Teatro Pacini in Catania in a production by Angelo Musco, a renowned Sicilian actor who specialized in dialect performances and won Pirandello’s favor as the ideal interpreter of his plays. In fact, after Sicilian Limes Pirandello even crafted specific roles for Musco, such as the title characters in Think It Over, Giacomino! (Pensaci Giacomino!) and Liolà, both written and performed in 1916.

In 1919, the plot of “Sicilian Limes” also became the script for a silent movie titled Il crollo (The Breakdown), produced by the Flegrea company and directed by Mario Gargiulo, and starring Alberto Francis-Bertone and Tina Xeo (Gargiulo’s wife) in the leading roles. In 1920, the movie was also screened with two different titles, Lumie di Sicilia and Sono lo sposo di Teresina (1920).

The Editors

“Is Teresina in?”

The butler, still in his shirtsleeves but already constricted by a very high detachable collar, looked the young man up and down. The young man stood there on the landing, a country dweller by appearance, the collar of his coarse greatcoat pulled up over his ears, his fingers purple and numb from the cold, holding a small, filthy bag in one hand and a small, worn suitcase in the other as a counterweight.

“Teresina? Who’s she?” the butler asked in turn, raising his thick eyebrows, which met in the middle and looked like a mustache shaved off his lip and stuck to his forehead so as not to get lost.

The young man first shook his head to rid the tip of his nose of a small drop of cold water, then replied:

“Teresina, the singer.”

“Ah,” the butler exclaimed, with a smile of ironic surprise. “Is that what she’s called—Teresina? And who are you?”

“Is she in or isn’t she?” the young man asked, screwing up his eyes and sniffing. “Tell her Micucciohas come, and let me in.”[1]

“There’s nobody here at this hour,” the butler replied, the smile cooling on his lips. “Signora SinaMarnis is still at the theater and—”[2]

“What about Aunt Marta?” Micuccio interrupted.

“Oh, are you the nephew?”

The butler immediately grew obsequious.

“Then please come in. There’s nobody here. Your aunt’s at the theatre, too. They won’t be back before the bell rings one.[3] We’re having a party in honor of your... What is the signora to you? Your cousin then?”

For a moment, Micuccio was embarrassed.

“I’m not... no, I’m not really her cousin. I’m... I’m Micuccio Bonavino—she’ll know. I’ve come specially from our village.”

At these words, the butler’s manner of address immediately became less formal.[4] Admitting Micuccio to a small, dark room next to the kitchen, where someone was snoring loudly, he said:

“Come in here and sit down. I’ll bring a lamp.”

Micuccio looked to the side from which the snoring came but could make out nothing. Then he peered into the kitchen, where the cook, with the help of a scullery boy, was getting the meal ready. The mingled smell of the dishes being prepared overcame him, making him almost dizzy, as if intoxicated. He had eaten almost nothing since morning, having come all the way from the province of Messina:[5] one night and one whole day on trains.

The butler brought in the lamp, and whoever was snoring in the room, behind a curtain hung on a string from one wall to the other, muttered in sleep:

“Who is it?”

“Get up, Dorina!” the butler cried. “Look, Signor Bonvicino is here.”

“Bonavino,” Micuccio corrected him, blowing on his fingers.[6]

“Bonavino, Bonavino, an acquaintance of the signora. You sleep like a log: people come to the door, and you don’t hear. I have to lay the table, I can’t do everything myself, do you understand? I can’t tend to the cook, who doesn’t know a thing, and to the people who are coming.”

These words were greeted by a broad, loud yawn, prolonged by a stretching of limbs, and finishing in a whinny and an abrupt shudder. The butler walked away, exclaiming:

“All right, then!”

Micuccio smiled and watched him as he walked through another half-lit room, all the way to a vast, brightly lit room at the far end, where a magnificent table stood. Micuccio stared in awe until the snoring again made him turn and look at the curtain.

The butler kept going back and forth with his napkin under his arm, now grumbling at Dorina, who was still asleep, now at the cook, who must have been new, called in specially for that evening’s event, and who kept pestering him to explain things. Micuccio, in order not to pester him in turn, judged it wise to keep to himself all the questions he felt like asking. He would have had to tell him, or at least hint, that he was Teresina’s fiancé, and he did not want to do that, although he could not have said why, perhaps because then the butler would have had to treat him, Micuccio, as a master, and seeing how nonchalant and elegant the butler was, although still without his tails, Micuccio was unable to overcome the awkwardness he felt just thinking about it. After a while, however, seeing him pass by again, he could not help asking him:

“Excuse me... who does this place belong to?”

“Us, as long as we’re here,” the butler replied hurriedly.

Micuccio stood there, shaking his head.

Good Lord, it was true, then! Fate had been kind. It had all worked out. That butler who appeared so lordly, the cook, and the scullery boy, that Dorina snoring over there: they were all servants working for Teresina. Who would ever have thought it?

He saw again in his mind’s eye the squalid attic, way down there in Messina, where Teresina lived with her mother. Five years before, if it had not been for him, both mother and daughter would have starved to death in that distant attic. It was he who had discovered that treasure in Teresina’s throat! She was always singing back then, like a sparrow on a roof, unaware of her treasure: she would sing out of spite, she would sing so as not to think of the poverty he tried to mitigate as best he could, despite the strenuous opposition of his family, especially his mother. But could he abandon Teresina in that state, after her father’s death? Abandon her because she had nothing, while he, for better or worse, had a humble job, as flute player in the municipal band? Reason said he should! But what of the heart?

Yes, it had been a true inspiration from heaven, a prodding by fate, to take notice of her voice, when nobody else did, on that beautiful April day, at the attic window that so wonderfully framed the blue of the sky. Teresina was softly singing a passionate Sicilian air, the tender words of which Micuccio could still remember. Teresina was sad that day, because of her father’s recent death and the stubborn opposition of Micuccio’s family; and he too, he recalled, was sad, and as he listened to her sing tears had sprung from his eyes. He had heard that air sung many times, but never like that. He had been so impressed that the next day, without warning either her or her mother, he had brought his friend, the conductor of the band, up to the attic with him. And so the first singing lessons had begun, and for two years in a row he had spent almost all his wages on her: he had rented a piano for her, bought her sheet music, and even given the conductor the odd informal fee. The good old days! Teresina was burning with the desire to take flight, to launch herself into the future that the conductor promised her would be bright; and, in the meantime, what fiery caresses she gave Micuccio to express her gratitude, and what dreams of shared happiness they had!

Aunt Marta, on the other hand, would shake her head bitterly. The poor old woman had lived through a lot and no longer had faith in the future: she worried about her daughter and did not want her even to think about the possibility of escaping the poverty to which they had been resigned. She also knew what the folly of that dangerous dream was costing him.

But neither he nor Teresina listened to her. She objected in vain when a young composer, having heard Teresina at a concert, declared that it would be a real crime not to give her better teachers and a complete artistic education. Naples—she had to be sent to the conservatory in Naples,[7] whatever the cost.

And so, without thinking twice, Micuccio had broken with his family, sold a small farm that had been bequeathed to him by his uncle the priest, and sent Teresina to Naples to pursue her studies.

That was the last time he had seen her. Letters, yes... he had her letters from the conservatory, and then, once Teresina, after her resoundingly successful debut at the San Carlo,[8] had launched herself into the artistic life and was being fought over by the principal theatres, he had Aunt Marta’s letters. At the foot of these shaky, hesitant letters the poor old woman scratched out on paper as best she could, there were always a few words from Teresina, who never had time to write. Dear Micuccio, I confirm what mother says. Be well and love me. They had agreed that he would give her five or six years to make her way freely: they were both young and could wait. Five years had already gone by, and he had always shown those letters to anyone who wanted to see them, to put to rest the slanders that his family flung at Teresina and her mother. Then he had fallen ill, he had been at death’s door, and, unbeknown to him, Aunt Marta and Teresina had sent him a decent sum of money: part of it had gone during his illness, but the rest he had torn by force from the greedy hands of his family, and now he had come to give it back to Teresina. No, he didn’t want that money. Not because he thought of it as charity, having already spent so much on her himself, but... No, he couldn’t have said why himself, and now more than ever, here, in this place... He just didn’t want that money! He had waited so many years, he could wait a little longer. Now Teresina had more than enough money, a sign that the future had opened up for her, and so it was time for the old promise to be fulfilled, to spite whoever did not want to believe it.

Micuccio got to his feet with a frown, as if to strengthen himself in this conclusion, blew again on his frozen hands, and stamped his feet.

“Cold?” the butler asked him in passing. “It won’t be long now. Come into the kitchen. You’ll be better there.”

Micuccio refused to follow the butler’s advice: with his lordly air, the man disconcerted and irritated him. Dejected, he sat down again to think. Soon afterwards, a loud peal of bells shook him.

“Dorina, the signora!” cried the butler, hastily putting on his tails and running to open the door. Seeing that Micuccio was about to follow him, he stopped abruptly and said:

“Stay here; let me tell her first.”

“Oh, oh, oh…” moaned a sleepy voice behind the curtain; and, soon afterwards, a big, stocky woman appeared, all bundled up, dragging one leg and unable as yet to unglue her eyes, with a woolen shawl pulled up over her nose, her hair dyed gold.[9]

Micuccio looked at her in astonishment. She, too, opened her eyes wide in surprise at the sight of this stranger.

“The signora,” Micuccio repeated.

Dorina abruptly regained consciousness. “Here I am, here I am…” she said, removing the shawl, throwing it behind the curtain, and striving—heavy as she was—to run to the door.

All at once, the appearance of this heavily dyed crone, added to the butler’s admonition, gave the discouraged Micuccio a painful presentiment. He heard Aunt Marta’s shrill voice:

“In here, Dorina! In the dining room!”

The butler and Dorina passed before him, supporting magnificent baskets of flowers. He stuck his head out to get a view of the brightly lit room at the back and saw a large number of men in tails, all talking at the same time. His vision became blurred: such was his surprise, such his emotion, that he did not realize that his eyes had filled with tears. He closed them, and in that darkness, he shrank into himself, almost as if to resist the torture caused in him by a long, loud peal of laughter. Was it Teresina? Oh God, why was she laughing like that in there?[10]

A stifled cry made him reopen his eyes, and there in front of him was Aunt Marta. The poor woman was unrecognizable: not only was she wearing a hat, she was also weighed down with a sumptuous velvet mantilla.

“What? Micuccio... you, here?”

“Aunt Marta…” Micuccio exclaimed, almost fearfully, standing and gazing at her.

“How on earth…?” the old woman continued, still in shock. “Without warning? What happened? When did you get here? This evening of all evenings... Oh God, God…”

“I’m here to…” Micuccio stammered, no longer knowing what to say.

“Wait!” Aunt Marta interrupted him. “What are we to do? What are we to do? You see how many people there are, my boy? It’s Teresina’s party, her evening... Wait, wait here a while…”

“If…” Micuccio tried to say, his throat tight with anguish, “if you think I should go…”

“No, wait a while, I said,” the embarrassed old woman replied hastily.

“Not that I would know where to go in this town... at his hour…”

Aunt Marta left, waving her gloved hand at him to indicate that he should wait, and went to the dining room. Before long, it seemed to Micuccio as if a chasm had opened up in there, because a sudden silence had fallen. Then he heard, clearly and distinctly, these words from Teresina:

“One moment, gentlemen.”

Again, his vision became blurred, as he waited for her to appear. But Teresina did not appear, and the conversation resumed in the dining room. It was Aunt Marta who reappeared, after a short time that seemed to him an eternity. This time, she was without her hat, without her mantilla, without her gloves, and seemed less embarrassed.

“Let’s wait here for a while, shall we?” she said. “I’ll stay with you... They’re having dinner now... We can stay here. Dorina will lay this little table for us, and we’ll have dinner together and reminisce about the good old days, eh?... I really can’t believe I’m here with you, my boy. We’re nice and secluded here... In there, you understand, there are so many gentlemen... Poor thing, she can’t do without them... Her career, you understand? That’s how it is! Have you seen the newspapers? Big things, my son! But as for me... well, I always feel as if I’m at sea... I can hardly believe I’m here with you tonight.”

At last, the old woman, who had talked and talked, instinctively, so as not to give Micuccio time to think, smiled, rubbed her hands, and looked at him with real emotion.

Dorina came and laid the table, hurriedly, because the meal had already begun in the dining room.

“Will she come?” Micuccio asked gloomily, his tone anxious. “I mean, so that I can at least see her.”

“Of course she’ll come,” the old woman immediately replied, making an effort to overcome her awkwardness. “As soon as she has a spare moment: she already told me.”

They looked at each other and smiled, as if finally recognizing each other. Through the awkwardness and the emotion, their souls had found their way towards greeting each other with that smile. “You’re Aunt Marta,” said Micuccio’s eyes. “And you, Micuccio, my dear, good boy, are the same as ever, you poor thing!” said Aunt Marta’s eyes.[11] But immediately the old woman lowered hers, so that Micuccio should not read anything else there. She again rubbed her hands and said:

“Shall we eat?”

“Yes, I’m so hungry!” Micuccio exclaimed, happy and trusting now.

“The cross first—now that I’m here with you, I can make it,” the old woman said with a mischievous wink, and made the sign of the cross.[12]

The butler arrived with the first course. Micuccio watched carefully, curious as to how Aunt Marta took her portion from the dish. But when his turn came, it struck him as he raised his hands that they were dirty from the long journey, and he blushed, grew muddled, and raised his eyes to glance at the butler, who, now very polite, gave him a slight nod and a smile, as if encouraging him to help himself. Fortunately, Aunt Marta got him out of an awkward situation.

“Here, Micuccio, let me serve you.”

He was so grateful he could have kissed her! Having eaten his portion, he also hurriedly crossed himself as soon as the butler had walked away.

“Good boy!” said Aunt Marta.

And he felt blessed, as if everything were in order, and began to eat as he had never eaten in his life, no longer thinking about his hands or the butler.

Nevertheless, every now and again, when the butler, entering or leaving the dining room, opened the glass-paneled inner door, something like a wave of unintelligible words or a few bursts of laughter would come from there, and Micuccio would turn, agitated, and look at the old woman’s sorrowful, affectionate eyes, as if to read an explanation in them. But what he in fact read in them was a plea not to ask anything for the moment, to put off any explanation until later. And both again smiled at each other and resumed eating and talking about their distant village, with Aunt Marta constantly asking him news of friends and acquaintances.

“Aren’t you drinking?”

Micuccio reached out his hand to take the bottle, but, at that moment, the revolving door of the dining room opened again; there was a rustle of silk, hurried footsteps, and then it was almost as if the little room were suddenly violently illuminated, blinding him.

“Teresina…”

His voice died on his lips, from sheer astonishment. What a queen she was!

His face on fire, his eyes and mouth wide open, he stared at her, stunned. Why on earth was she... like that? Her chest bare, her shoulders bare, her arms bare... all aglitter with jewels and fabrics... He could not see her, could no longer see her as a real, living person in front of him. What was she saying? The voice, the eyes, the laugh: nothing in this dreamlike apparition any longer resembled her.[13]

“How are you? Are you all right now, Micuccio? Good, good... You were ill, unless I’m mistaken... We’ll speak again in a while. For now, you have my mother here with you ... We’re agreed, aren’t we?”

And Teresina ran off back to the dining room, her dress rustling.

“Aren’t you eating anymore?” Aunt Marta asked shyly, after a while, to snap Micuccio out of his awestruck silence.

He turned slightly to look at her.

“Eat,” the old woman insisted, pointing to the dish.

Micuccio lifted two fingers to his stained and crumpled collar and tugged at it, trying to take a deep breath.

“Eat?”

And he fluttered his fingers next to his chin, as if waving her away, or saying: That’s enough, I can’t stand it anymore. He was silent a while longer, crestfallen, immersed in the vision he had just been granted, then murmured:

“How did she become…”

He saw Aunt Marta shake her head bitterly. She too had stopped eating, as if waiting.

“Best not even to think of it anymore…” he added, as if to himself, closing his eyes.

He could see now, in that darkness of his, the chasm that had opened up between the two of them. No, this woman here was no longer his Teresina. It was all over… It had been over for some time, and he had been a fool, a stupid fool not to realize it before now. They had told him so in the village, and he had stubbornly refused to believe it... And now, what kind of figure was he cutting here, in this place? If all those men, if the butler himself, found out that he, Micuccio Bonavino, had risked life and limb to come all this way, thirty-six hours by train, seriously believing himself still to be the fiancé of that queen, how they would laugh, those men and the butler and the cook and the scullery boy and Dorina! How they would laugh if Teresina dragged him into their presence, there in the dining room, and said: “Look, this poor fellow, a flute player, says he wants to be my husband!” True, she had promised it herself, but how could she ever have imagined back then that one day she would be like this? And yes, it was also true that he had shown her the path and had made it possible for her to take it; but now that she had come so far, while he had remained where he was, still the same, playing the flute on Sundays in the village square, how could he ever catch up with her? Best not even to think about it... And what did that tiny amount of money he had spent on her matter now that she had become a great lady? He was ashamed just to think that someone might suspect he had come here to claim his rights because of that tiny amount of money. At this point it occurred to him that he had in his pocket the money Teresina has sent him during his illness. He blushed: he felt ashamed and put his hand in the breast pocket of his jacket, where the wallet was.

“I came, Aunt Marta,” he said hurriedly, “partly to give you back this money you sent me. What was it meant to be, payment? Restitution? I see Teresina has become a... Yes, to me she seems a queen! I see that... No, it’s not worth thinking about anymore! But this money, no: I didn’t deserve this from her... It’s over, we’ll not speak of it again... But the money, no! I’m only sorry it’s not all there…”

“What are you saying, my boy?” Aunt Marta tried to interrupt him, deeply upset and with tears in her eyes.

Micuccio silenced her with a gesture.

“I didn’t spend it: my family spent it while I was ill, without my knowledge. But it makes up for the little I spent then... Do you remember? Let’s not think about it anymore. Here’s the rest. I’m going now.”

“Really? In such a rush?” Aunt Marta exclaimed, trying to detain him. “At least wait for me to tell Teresina. Didn’t you hear that she wanted to see you again? I’ll go and tell her…”

“No, there’s no point,” Micuccio replied, determined. “Let her stay there with those gentlemen. She’s fine there, she’s in her place. As for poor little me... well, I saw her and that was enough for me... Or rather, go... You go in there, too... Do you see how they’re laughing? I don’t want anyone to laugh at me... I’m leaving.”

Aunt Marta misinterpreted this sudden resolve of Micuccio’s as an act of contempt or a sudden fit of jealousy. It seemed now to the poor woman that anyone seeing her daughter would have their worst suspicions aroused, which was why she was weeping inconsolably, endlessly dragging her secret grief through the turmoil of this life of hateful luxury that so obscenely dishonored her tired old age.

“But I can’t keep my eye on her all the time, my boy,” she blurted out. “Not anymore…”

“Why?” asked Micuccio, and all at once he read in her eyes the suspicion he had not had before, and his face clouded over.

The old woman gave in to her pain and hid her face with trembling hands but was unable to stop the tears from bursting out.

“Yes, yes, go, my boy, go…” she said, her voice choked with sobs. “She’s not for you anymore, you’re right... If only you’d listened to me!”

“So,” cried Micuccio, bending over her and forcefully tearing one of her hands from her face. But so heartfelt and wretched was the look with which she asked him for pity, lifting her finger to her lips, that he stopped short and added in a different tone, forcing himself to speak softly: “So she... she’s no longer worthy of me. Enough, enough, I’m going anyway... In fact, all the more so now... How foolish I’ve been, Aunt Marta: I didn’t understand! Don’t cry... What difference does it make? It’s fate, they say... just fate…”

He took the suitcase and the small bag from under the table and was about to leave when he remembered that the bag contained the beautiful limes he had brought Teresina from the village.

“Look, Aunt Marta,” he said.

He opened the top of the bag and, shielding those fresh, fragrant fruits with his arm, poured them out onto the table.

“And what if I threw all these limes,” he added, “in the faces of those gentlemen in there?”

“I beg you,” the old woman moaned through her tears, again imploring him with a gesture to be silent.

“No, it’s all right,” Micuccio resumed, laughing sharply, and putting the empty bag back in his pocket. “I brought them for her, but now I’m leaving them just for you, Aunt Marta.”

He took one and held it under Aunt Marta’s nose.

“Smell, Aunt Marta, that’s the smell of our village... And to think that I even paid customs duty on them... Enough. Just for you, make sure of that... Tell her this from me: ‘Good luck!’”

He picked up the suitcase and left. But on the stairs, a sense of anxiety and confusion overcame him: alone, abandoned, at night, in a big city he did not know, far from his village; disappointed, disheartened, defeated. Reaching the front door, he saw that it was raining heavily. He could not summon up the courage to venture out onto those unknown streets in that rain. He walked back in slowly, walked up part of the stairs, then sat down on the top step and placing his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, began weeping silently.

When the meal was over, Sina Marnis reappeared in the little room. There, she found her mother also weeping, alone, while in the dining room those men kept up their commotion and laughter.

“Has he gone?” she asked, surprised.

Aunt Marta nodded, without looking at her. Sina stared into the distance, absorbed, then sighed:

“Poor thing…”

But immediately she felt like smiling.

“Look,” her mother said, no longer holding back her tears with the tablecloth. “He brought you limes…”

“How lovely!” cried Sina, leaping for joy. She squeezed her mother’s waist and with her other hand took as many as she could carry.

“No, not there!” her mother protested loudly. But Sina shrugged and ran to the dining room, crying:

“Sicilian limes! Sicilian limes!”