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work you grow stale without a break.

Around ten the second night of the holiday he went
down to the bar and found it deserted—except for a
lone Italian youth.

“Id seen his picture a thousand times,” said ].B.
“I kept looking and looking, trying to place it. Then
I remembered. It was the oval face I’d seen so often
in the museums—paintings by the masters of those
glorious, too feminine, too beautiful young Italian
boys. His brown eyes sparkled. His teeth were fine
and even. There wasn’t a flaw in his complexion. He
was even too beautiful to be a woman.

“I could feel myself getting red in the face. I knew
I shouldnt be staring. The boy, however, smiled at
me. Far from being embarrassed, he said, ‘You’re
all alone, signore. May I join you?” His English
was impeccable.

“I pointed to the chair beside me. ‘Of course, come
on over.’

“‘I am Franco,” he said in that precise English.
‘Who are you?’

“I told him. ‘Not the movie director? I heard you
were in Rome. It was in the newspapers. Oh! Sig-
nore, tell me all about you.’

“I told him that was a pretty tall order, that,
maybe, we should have a drink first.