Once upon a time I could afford to be philosophical, but not tonight. Hiding out in a hotel in downtown Rome, fearing who might knock at the door, and a knife wound has taken away that luxury. I’m in fight-flight-flee mode. In the past two hours I’ve done all three, but I forgot the order. The word I’m trying hard to avoid is “terrified.” I slide a fingernail under the thin plastic cover on the cassette tape. It rips off with a wonderful crackling sound reminding me of all the hours I spent interviewing the scholar Jacques de Winter back
Canto Zero
