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Near the tavern the road became a dusty track, the dust of which

was always black. It was a winding road, and about a hundred

paces further on, it turned to the right to the graveyard. In the

middle of the graveyard stood a stone church with a green cupola

where he used to go to mass two or three times a year with his

father and mother, when a service was held in memory of his

grandmother, who had long been dead, and whom he had never seen.

On these occasions they used to take on a white dish tied up in a

table napkin a special sort of rice pudding with raisins stuck in

it in the shape of a cross. He loved that church, the

old-fashioned, unadorned ikons and the old priest with the

shaking head. Near his grandmother's grave, which was marked by a

stone, was the little grave of his younger brother who had died

at six months old.