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paid by Paul. We have several problems. I’ll start with the
least of them: we are looking for a new tenant.
The solution came one wonderful morning. I was draped
across my father’s chest in my sling, listening to the
Breakfast Symphony of kitchen noises being performed all
around me in the gurgling of sink water, water boiling in
the kettle, clatter of plates and cups, Cat Stevens’ Peace
Train chugging away, riding on the edge of darkness in the
radio to the accompaniment of Irene’s husky, melodious
laaa-la-lala- laa
(ride on the peace train)
pa pa pa pa
. Max
washed the breakfast dishes while Paul took the whistling
kettle off the burner to sterilise my bottles. Dangling there
against his belly, blinking myopically up at his eyes, I balled
my fists around a sunbeam that dropped through the
strands of his dark hair.
Irene, as usual, did nothing. She lolled on the sofa we had
installed in our kitchen, rolled cigarettes and was the first
to come up with a proposal.
“His name is Francesco. He works in the Venezia ice cream
parlour and needs a place till December.”
“Forget it”, said Max. “You just want to get into bed with
him.”
“Anyway, what are we supposed to do after December?”
Paul asked.