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The Mystery of Sicily.
They invite us and we attend their party. Accessed across the Atlantic, by the golden boat of Hades. In a nine-ring palazzo where friends of Hugh Hefner hang out. Sartorial sport courts atop white silk shirts and hand woven ties. The polish on their leather shoes glisten off the bottom of our cocktail glasses. We observe them. We observe them and we surmise. They must do some kind of extremely important work that may or may not have something to do with barter, but we never quite know what it is - and because of that, we are vaguely afraid of them. They tell good stories, and they have a friendly way of putting their hand in yours or on your shoulder or your arm when they talk to you - and they will stare right at you when they talk, so you have to pay close attention to everything they say. Indeed. There is something distinctly sinister about them, and we kind of like them for it. They are suave, in a sentimental way that seems to reek of heavy drama and dangerous, romantic adventures involving secret murder, violence and desperate foreign intrigues that would forever go unspoken, at least by them. They are far too professional to go around babbling and bragging about this secret life or what they really do for a living. We have no need to know, anyway. Cautious
Post 10 - August'05 Back to home...
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