The owner, Grazia, has buckteeth, a skeletal face, coal-black hair pulled into a very long braid. She throws herself at Marianne whenever she sees her, like a sparrow hawk on a sleeping prey. Marianne has been warned about her, but Grazia uses a seductive tone to entice her: “Come and join us.” “Here, for you, we’re always open.” “I’m expecting you, don’t forget me.” In short, she has a knack for stating the words of welcome that Marianne expects — in vain — from the village in general and from Marco in particular.The work Grazia offers seems in any case the only possible kind in a region plagued by unemployment, where hope lasts only as long as a tourist season. And so, one day, Marianne goes there, as much from courage as from resignation. Grazia gives her a half-smile, takes her into the kitchen, explains that she’ll work first at the bar, then at the tables. “The tables?” exclaims Mario, her husband, who’s just made his entrance, “but she hardly knows a word of Italian, it would be a disaster!”
