He stood there with his fingers entwined, twiddling his thumbs. ‘The old lady says she wants to see you. She found out you’re back in the area, and she wants to ask something of you. She says it has something to do with your grandfather and that until it’s settled, she can’t go.’ ‘Go where?’ asked the head that was still in the water. The priest stopped twiddling and exhaled through his nose. ‘She keeps going on about some piece of paper she signed. I promised her you’d come with me tomorrow.’ While he waited for their response, the priest set to choosing a tasty morsel from what he had in the cart. That morning he had requisitioned some filloa pancakes, bread, a pot of honey, sugar, and a cabbage (did the baker’s wife think she’d get away with little vegetables now?), and he was salivating at the prospect. Climbing Bocelo Mountain had whetted his appetite. ‘In any case, it’s about time you came back into the fold,’ he added, putting a filloa pancake in his mouth.
