Outside a café at the port of Frikes, there was a guy, maybe eighty, in a houndstooth fedora and the kind of tinted glasses favored (at least in movies) by Baltic spies. I was absolutely certain that if I say down by him, in a few minutes he’d say, “I understand the cheese pies are excellent here in Frikes.” I’d wait a bit and then say, “Yes, but they are even better in Vathi.” He’d say, “The oracle speaks, and the priest cannot shoe his own horse.” Then I’d say, “My wife’s uncle is sick, but the highway is green.” And he’d say. . . .
Posted on: Sat, 08 Jun 2013 19:48:36 +0000
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