"There are days I do not wish to remember," he says. We are seated on the terrace overlooking the sparkling sea, the remnants of breakfast on a plate before him, a glass of pomegranate juice untouched by his right hand. Without seeming aware of the action he lifts his fork from the plate and shifts it a millimeter to one side. "The seventh of October is such a day. It is a day whose remembering I could do without. But that is not the nature of remembering."
Later, walking through the narrow streets of the city, he points out signs and translates them. "Taxidermy while you wait," he says of one. "That is an approximation, of course, a more literal rendering would be 'Animal-not-life-sawdust-for-putting essence-of-quickly-patron-stay.'" He points to another, above a low arched doorway. "Metaphors elongated, cheap." I find these claims improbable, but I do not know this language, I do not know this city, not as he does.
On the subject of the future he is coy. "I am told there will be jetpacks?" He spreads his hands, palms upward, apologetically. "I am told a great many things. Perhaps some of them are even true."
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