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ramps wide staircases, dirty and dusty lead the crater to the sea, accompanied him by the hand. A dramatic voices and crumpled welcomes fishermen who return from the water. Thirsty and have little desire to speak. They walk without looking, with his head down cursing, mumbling some gibberish, and finally the decision to curse God with open arms that protrude from the opposite shore. The men are forged from the sea rough and silent, even during the day night, silent and fearless. Exiles at home. Lost. Finally they stop on the rocks, are abandoned, exhausted magnificence of the sunlight of mid-day, smoking cigarettes before falling asleep under the frayed straw hats and white beards and uncultivated. Do not talk or look. The day is not yet fallen, but for them it is already night. Their bodies greet life for a few minutes while the spill barges laden with fresh fish nets. The fruits of the sea are still packed into the bellies of fishing boats that are coming in dribs and drabs in the port of Torre and the Greek crowd lined up on the platform. Later, a string of light bulbs hung reflects a dim light and yellow on white marble and shiny freshly washed by the cold spray pumps. Alongside piles of boxes stacked and properties of polystyrene. The market is waiting to enter the scene, including the remains of shattered buildings, skeletons Ship repair and deposits in smoky and smelly. All around was a smell of tar and scattered cod, oil and oil, mussels and paint. The port shows its salty skin, his face poor and emaciated, dirty and haggard, overwhelmed with tires, garbage and all kinds of papers and old refrigerators and old iron piled up.
Meanwhile, the flood continues to chip the stone blocks arranged randomly in the salt and crumble in scent, making steam and dust. 'E criatura fearlessly dive and wallow in the black sea, some are the mussels on the rocks.
The fish in the sky to greet the return of the trawlers on which the nodes while they prepare for the next day. It 's a thrill rushed networks rewound with calloused hands, contrite eyes of the tired, wet and muddy ropes quickly rearranged and placed in the boxes. The dog slumped forward, astounded by the sun, lying on a bed of semimorente crowded networks. In the evening the salt corrodes the skin and flags of the wind bow tear without fear. The sea is open and messed up, the sand is black and dark, the wind lowering of the water. The fishermen are slowly returning home with bags full of squid, octopus and cuttlefish. The curtain of the market falls, the night is coming to pick them up again. Wolves have rewound the hooks, pulled off the barrels and buckets and stored for the next day to the stale bread that will fool the fish again.

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The eyes of Mary and the death of chicken

Giuseppina governs the small part of a farm, which overlooks the side of the road to Limavady, before the petrol station Api. I'm already waiting for a while and when I get reproaches me with his eyes half-smile half hardness. Straight out of a film of Cyprus and Maresco. E 'character lively, friendly and always and only then talk about money. More than in the country you had to work in banks, I always say, and she laughs and makes as if to give me a slap.

Who do you cook the chicken? asks me peremptory. Jose has five daughters, all unmarried and living with her she tells me, except that Concetta is to Rome and worked at Tivoli in fact I said, you do not remember well and do not even know what it does, I think robb 'and accounting, cuncett ten and pup '. In the country with her is Mary and also carry out the whole shebang. Maria has narrow shoulders of those who want to give less hassle as possible, he works hard and has resolved to make the people who hurry to leave the scene, if anything, even disappear. It 's a timid lady, her face haggard and emaciated, his eyes lowered and her hair pulled tight and dirty and worn under a hat that gives prominence to his large hazel eyes. I think it is beautiful, but Mary is too interested in cleaning up the car. I say to Jose that I want to do a film on her, I want you to tell me his life over a glass of wine, one Sunday I bring my camera. She looks at me funny and flattering tone, staring at me with a sly smile and attentive, I look good and then sends me nicely to that country. I ask the usual eggs while I wander through the fields. The eggs must take the Maria . Meanwhile, pour water into a saucepan and let boil on the stove. Before I came to do what I do visit the cows. In the farm there are cows, goats, rabbits, ducks, calves and chickens. I ask if I can help her out a few Sundays since she still has to put the tomatoes. I say I'm no good for the land that I have calluses in the midst of the hands. Who do you cook the chicken? blue eyes, that arise under a patina of wrinkles, betray the mocking and witty, Josephine. She tells me who has five daughters, with the same air of an Iranian carpet salesman.

He shows me a nice chicken, young and grown. I want it smaller and I choose another, but she wants to give the larger one. And so after him, before forcing him on the corner of the house, then caught and reversed, holding their legs tightly. The chicken is still on the scale. Three and a half kilograms. He walks away but first gets a knife blank. Just enough time to take some steps and cut with a sharp blow to the throat of the bird. For a moment he stops time and nothing seems to happen. Then the chicken began to beat and give shots, like a soul gone mad with grief that devastates and strikes against the cage of the body. The agonizing struggle lasts a few tens of seconds at the end of the chicken gives up. E 'dead. Joseph takes him by the neck and drop it into the bucket of hot water. You should see a chicken die, he says, Penn immerses the body in the container. Joseph places the animal on the white table and begins to pluck, until it is completely white. Puts aside the head of the chicken legs stomach. These are the stock . I tell her I do not care and can also give to cats.

We remain intent on watching the slaughter of chicken, trying without scruple. The legs of the chicken to the cats and the return of Mary with the eggs. I start to look at her eyes and she makes time to give me his back and without saying a word back to the fields.