Slashing angrily with his billhook, he was pruning the hedge on the south side of the farm, the side where the olives were, and now and then throwing glances in the opposite direction, over the dry wall to where Manuele Porresu spent days waiting under the pergola of his farm for the right moment to harvest the produce of his fields, now larger by nearly two hundred metres thanks to the altered boundary on the Bastíu side. The others who bordered the area had already completed their harvest, some sooner than others, leaving the air thick with smoke from burnt stubble, which had raised the temperature by a couple of degrees, hardly ideal at that time of year. Nicola scarcely even glanced in their direction before setting himself mercilessly to prune the hedge, with his brother at his side struggling unsuccessfully to keep up with his furious pace. “Nicò, stop, it makes me feel ill when you go about it like a gorilla.” “Leave me alone, Andría. Every time I come here and see what that wretch is up to .
