THE PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A WOMAN WHO MIGHT AS WELL BE NAMED CASSANDRA
4th September, 2016
This is happening in Turin, as another kind of Dublin twice removed, and more good looking.
All of the people I happen to meet and who find their way into the narrative.
Like Joyce’s Ulysses but somewhat more ambitious
Marco Hercules woke up one morning, splashed his eyes, lathered up his grin, then spat, and went out to meet the Nemean Lion who was working as a red haired bargirl in Via Pio Quinto. Marco engaged Via Príncipe Tomaso, and took the first right, and just brushed off the synagogue’s dome from his psyche. It was sunny, and he was smiling. He had no idea that once a long time ago, he and the lion would fight to the death. This time around, the sun was sunny, and he was happy. He arrived at the establishment, and Federica, the present-day red haired lion greeted him:
— Hey, Marco! How goes it with you?
— It goes well, my red haired friend. It’s a beautiful day.
— Ah, that may be, but Greece is going under the Peloponnese sea.
— That was a long time in the making.
— You mean Cassandra’s curse?
— That and all the rest, but I’m sure it didn’t help.
— Well it was a long time ago.
— Time is not a player here. This is Turin, and in Turin, things eternally come back in your face.
— And to think I was happy the sun was up there in the blue sky.
— The sun may be up there, but things still happen under the sun. That is Greece for you.
— And in turn for us all.
— Well then I think, I will try to make the best of this day, before the sun goes down. Are they still doing any Mooocow burgers?
— Nooe, they’re going all vegan now.
— Yes it’s more appropriate, I would venture.
— You feel the need for meat?
— More like dried skin and furballs.
— Eww, dude!
Marco fronted an amused smile, then turned around and grabbed the journal, on the bar with the left hand, and stepped outside, and sat on one of the pavement benches.
There was nothing in the papers that day, except news about the Earthquake. Marco read the papers every day hoping to find his name spelled diagonally in the third column on page five. All he could spell that day was Bloomnpo.
One the other side of town, the Dublin cat, who is now named Stefano, opened a bar. He kept his power of understanding more than he was thought to be able to, for a cat, that is.