At the bar at Roxy this morning I accidentally stepped on the pointed-toed leather shoe of a tall, thin, blonde girl. I turned and said, “Mi scuzi,” but The Ice Queen stared at me, imperiously silent, a look of contempt all over her polished alabaster face. She was a monarch in a thin pink blouse and designer jeans, perhaps hung over from last night’s bacchanalia. I thought: this gorgeous woman is never without suitors, supplicants, and her cell phone continually chirps. She believes all the adoration will last forever.
But the plump old woman who later took a seat next to my table could have told the princess how quickly it passes. No one calls HER anymore, not even her multitude of grandchildren. Gather ye rosebuds whilst ye may.
Rosebud! Which is the famous enigmatic word whispered by Orson Welles in his classic “Citizen Kane.” This supposedly was a reference to a boyhood sled, but Welles’ biographer David Thompson explains it actually was William Randolph Hearst’s pet name for Marion Davies’s clitoris.
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So what will I learn about Vittoria’s CT-scan results at the end of the day? Probably nothing, because I’m dealing with Italians. Also, the last words from Vittoria yesterday were: “computer is acting up.”
If it's as bad as I fear, I will not hear anything until next week. Or next year. The family response to bad news is to refuse to acknowledge it. Speaking of evil gives it more life than it deserves. So in this instance no news will be bad news.
I shrug, just like an Italian. What can I do?