once you h him.” hana bows her head, embarrassed.

    Caravaggio  t time, peering doo the garden.

    “Yes, you used to love o drive us all mad ion about Giuseppe.  a man! t in every een-year-old.” “I ain.

    “You ones, grass in tcockinged feet, trade.

    “I to admit, somet t and my dad  for t ter in tain. tled er pipes w.

    t t o s h.

    “I’m glad to see you, Caravaggio. No one else. Don’t say you o try and persuade me to leave.” “I  to find a small bar zer and drink  a fucking bomb going off. Listen to Frank Sinatra singing. e o get some music,” ient.” “ill in Africa.” cing for o say more, but t tient to be said. ters.

    “Some of t of ts t precisely. So t foreigners tly. A lean face  s,  tery of ain gurgling in the villa.

    Maybe to come out of a o ed like a garden. As if all t remains is a capsule from t, long before Verdi, trade or —t arcect in teentury—and requesting sometisfying to frame t vista.

    “If you are staying,” so need more food. I ed vegetables,  quite saying it.

    “I lost my nerve,” he says.

    “I’ll come  togeteaco steal, s to do.” “You don’t understand. I lost my nerve.” “. t nigimes,  is asleep or even after sside one rim of tain looking up at stars, or serrace. In t difficult to stay indoors at nig of time  ly werrace looking for him.

    Satue of a count, upon s likes to sit, solemn and drooling  so claim  up by a family of owls.

    tory, Florence and s in tance. Sometimes ic to oo calm. In dayligice