In the dim light of the day-room my dear friend Currado Malaspina lies motionless on a weathered Louis IV canapé. The long lost elegance of the tattered divan echos the condition of the ailing artist. The deep creases of his still stunningly handsome face are a rugged topography of his strange and eventful life.
He will pull through but his convalescence will be long.
Together with two Abyssinian petroglyphs and an 18th distemper on wood of St Michael, Currado brought back from a recent trip to Axum a eukaryotic parasite that has diminished him beyond recognition. He hasn't been able to work and is even too weak to read. Friends come and go bringing rare bottles of La Clarté de Haut-Brion and DVD's of vintage episodes of Apostrophe.
His spirits were briefly lifted last week after a visit from Manon Olivier and Dahlia Danton. They sat by his bed, Manon softly stroking his hand while Dahlia read aloud from Barthes' classic Sade/Fourier/Loyola and Cendrars' Moravagine, two of Malaspina's favorites.
He also loves Yona Wallach, especially Deux Jardins, but most people are too embarrassed to read it while Currado's elderly housekeeper and nurse are standing nearby.
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