“Oh.”
“He’s a beast. All these peasants are beasts.”
“How do you mean?”
“You wouldn’t believe it. You wouldn’t believe what just happened about that one.”
“Tell me.”
“You wouldn’t believe it.” The innkeeper spoke to the sexton. “Franz, come over here.” The sexton came, bringing his little bottle of wine and his glass.
“The gentlemen are just come down from the Wiesbadenerhütte,” the innkeeper said. We shook hands.
“What will you drink?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Franz shook his finger.
“Another quarter litre?”
“All right.”
“Do you understand dialect?” the innkeeper asked.
“No.”
“What’s it all about?” John asked.
“He’s going to tell us about the peasant we saw filling the grave, coming into town.”
“I can’t understand it, anyway,” John said. “It goes too fast for me.”
“That peasant,” the innkeeper said, “today he brought his wife in to be buried. She died last November.”
“December,” said the sexton.
“That makes nothing. She died last December then, and he notified the commune.”
“December eighteenth,” said the sexton.
“Anyway, he couldn’t bring her over to be buried until the snow was gone.”
“He lives on the other side of the Paznaun,” said the sexton. “But he belongs to this parish.”
“He couldn’t bring her out at all?” I asked.
“No. He can only come, from where he lives, on skis until the snow melts. So today he brought her in to be buried and the priest, when he looked at her face, didn’t want to bury her. You
