Above him slid the evasive shadow of a storm cloud. Its form was a heavy figure in a fluttering soutane. But the boy could see only the goat's belly.

The Old Man near the corner let the shadow pass over him, sensing something portentous in it. He knew it was there, knew also what it was about, but he wouldn't raise a finger except to smooth his yellow dog's back. There would be time enough, perhaps the Old Man reassured himself, to pay the devil his due. Time enough to give up his soul.

In the meantime, six sandals, stained an ocher, the same color as Pompeii's shaved hair, edged up close to him. The clapping they made on the concrete interrupted him in the ecstatic pleasure he knew, so that he quickly released his hold on the goat and pretended to be examining its haunches for ticks.

He knew at a glance that the biggest sandals belonged to Niobe, the neatest ones to Concetta, and the laced ones to Romeo, Concetta's idiot brother. Pompeii expected Romeo's small body to sink closer and closer to the ground. He expected Concetta's thin hand to reach down to grasp the boy, and her shrill, impetuous voice to sound against the rotundity of his disfigured flesh that was never sure of hearing anything.