As our friend the Cuban, dark as the night itself, pursued me across the Piazza San Francesco, I could discern the Sculptor peering through the iron scrolls of the locked gate which separated him from his working studio. He was in no condition to come to my rescue.
The party in Clara’s bar had begun hours too soon to celebrate the departure of a Czech sculptor. Grudgingly granted a brief leave of absence from his homeland and carrying a suitcase stuffed with salami to counterweigh his lack of Italian currency, he had come to Carrara to execute a work in marble.