Water from the cistern wouldn’t lather. “It’s bewitched,” said Xhexho. “Change it at once or you’re done for.”

Changing the water was a tough job. My father was reluctant. Grandmother insisted on it, and the other neighbourhood women who drew water from our cistern took her side. They collected some money and offered to work all day alongside the cleaning workers.

At last the decision was made. The chore began. The workers went up and down by rope, lamps in hand. Bucket after bucket was emptied. The old water came out to make way for the new.

Javer and Isa sat staring and smoking at the foot of the stairs, and burst out laughing from time to time.

“What’s so funny?” asked Xhexho. “Why don’t you get a bucket and give us a hand?”

“This great labour reminds us of the pyramids of Egypt,” said Javer.

Nazo’s daughter-in-law smiled.

The buckets were deafening as they clattered off the walls of the cistern.

“What we need is new people, not new water,” Javer said. Isa burst out laughing.

Mane Voco, Isa’s father, looked disapprovingly at the two boys.

Grandmother was coming down the stairs carrying a tray with cups of coffee for the workers.

Breathing hard, they sipped their coffee standing up. The lack of air deep in the cistern had made them pale. One of them was called Omer. When he went down, I leaned over the opening of the cistern and said his name.

“Omer,” echoed the cistern. When it was empty, its voice was loud, but curiously hoarse, as though it had a cold.

“Do you know who Omer was — Homer, that is?” Isa asked me.

“No, tell me.”

“He was a blind poet of ancient Greece.”

“Who put out his eyes? The Italians?”

They laughed.

“He wrote wonderful books about one-eyed monsters and about a city called Troy and also about a wooden horse.”

I leaned into the opening again. “Homer,” I shouted. Patches of light and shadow mingled in the cistern.

“Hoooomer,” it answered.

I thought I could hear the tapping of a blind man’s cane.