One day, many years ago, bored as teenagers tend to be, and hoping to end my boredom in those tedious hours before dinner, I stopped by my friend’s house a few minutes’ walk away, and after half-listening to records and skimming old magazines in her room, I saw her scanning that morning’s newspaper, before she grabbed her scissors and cut out Luciano’s picture (carefully, reverently) and tacked it to her wall. As if he were a pop idol. Perhaps he’d become one at this point. “Don’t look at me like that,” said my friend. “I think he’s beautiful.” Unlike most