“He was very… original,” I heard my own voice say, and I was amazed at myself: how did I ever think that up? Original? I could have thought of a more expressive word.
“Original? Original like… Terence Hill?” Mari asked.
“Like Nino Manfredi?” Edith looked at me in puzzlement.
“Like Adriano Celentano?” wondered Juli.
“No. Original like… Alessandro Grotti, I said, speaking his name slowly, savoring each and every consonant.
Quiet. A heavy silence.
“Oh, man, you are dead meat,” Juli said finally. “If you can’t compare him to anyone else besides himself… Well, then you are truly his slave.”
“Sure I am. But that’s the whole reason why last night Juli and I…” I began, but then I stopped short. I didn’t want the others to think that Juli and I had gone completely bonkers. I certainly hadn’t
