Toni Lucarda. He awaits us in his studio in San Vio. He wants me to see my head again..."
"...beheaded."
"Ah. Do you already know?"
"Toni told me himself. He told me that in December, when you were posing in Torcello, one day you gave him a boxing lesson and first of all a glass of whiskey. Indeed, more than a glass. And poor Toni, not used to either boxing or morning whiskey, ended up crashing into the sculpture. The head has fallen, detached from the torso and now you probably look like a beheaded John the Baptist*.
"Are you implying that we were drunk?" Papa asked, twisting his mouth, undecided whether to be offended or amused.
"I would never dare! But you cannot deny that you were happy that day in Torcello."
"Why not? I like Toni Lucarda. So do you want to go to San Vio to see Hemingstein's head decapitated?" he said taking my arm.
"Yeah, let's go see Hemingstein decapitated," I said, glad he seemed to have forgotten my sheep's head.
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