My third premoniton in two days that Vittoria’s CT-scan will turn out OK came this morning, as I held aloft my new feather duster and strolled along Forio’s main street. When I bought it at the market I thought the plumage was that of a peacock or some other exotic indigenous fowl. But Elena smilingly set me straight. “They’re chicken feathers,” she said. “Dyed purple.” But she hastened to reassure me they were obviously from a very young chicken, most likely a virgin.
My premonition of Vittoria’s good health was in the form of a mild surge of elation, or a sudden recognition of the utter beauty of the sunlit morning, the ancient buildings on both sides of the street, the lyrical language spoken by these passersby, and even the buzz of Apes and motorinos.
King of the Chickens!
Elena filled me in on the latest news. Her husband, just yesterday, had stopped by the magic garden and to his astonishment he found a couple empty hypodermic syringes on the patio near the apartment door. He wondered if this guy, James, who comes to water the avacados and banana trees, had left them. Elena laughed, “Oh, hell no! Jimmy gets his high from strong coffee!”
Strange, though, that Pina the housekeeper hadn’t reported them first. Who ARE the addicts who have overnight turned the magic garden into a shooting gallery?