“Vivaldi…Cecilia Bartoli…Dite Olme…La Fida Ninfa…”
Having learned Italian during the times that she was a w***e, she simply stood awed, as green lights began to blink and hum and an electronic arm began to move down a carriage, finally slotting onto a CD.
After a moment, the Mezzo Soprano’s voice engulfed the entire loft, not loud, simply a part of the place, seemingly blending into the panes of glass of the walls and roof and the rest of Mal’s amazing décor.
“You like Cecilia Bartoli?”
Again feeling like a baby in an adult world, she relied. “I’m not familiar with her.”
“I think you’ll enjoy this. When I lived in Milan I often attended….Aah…”
Then Mal grew silent, looking ashamed.
“I’m sorry…I talk far too much about myself…I don’t mean to…It’s just…aah…I’ve lived a pretty unusual
