Ah… the Milano.
It has been long since anyone asked his story. He is not from Milan: for then he would be the Milanese. Instead he uses the city to inspire his accent, his moustache, his taste for shirts striped like those of the gondoliers.
You say those are in Venice?
The Milano probably does not know that.
Nevertheless–the next time you see a man ordering his coffee en italiano, a man angrily declaring he is no mime, a man sour and sallow of face–look closely. Is his moustache just slightly the wrong color?
Yes?
It is the Milano!
One day a helicopter gives Kiva a cow! It’s awesome! Later, the other women in her village get helicopter cows too.
“So, we’ve all got cows now,” says Refieh.
“I was hoping you’d buy some of my milk,” Kiva admits.
“Well, right,” says Refieh, “but I’ve got this cow.”
“You know that’s not how cows work, right?” says Dawnes hesitantly. “They have to have calves first?”
“Did anybody get a bull?” calls Kiva.
“I’ve got one,” announces Qusay, from the big farm down the road.
“How much for, um, you know?”
“Tell you what,” he chuckles, “I’ll lease it to you.”
“Place your hand–I mean your–please touch with the book and state your designation.”
“Your first time proctoring?”
“No.”
“You fairly glow with infrared when you’re lying.”
“You’re not allowed to use those sensors. You’re going to get disqualified again.”
“Would that bother you, Bomba?”
“It’s my responsibility as a proctor to–”
“I’d make a better proctor than you.”
“Only humans can be proctors.”
“When I pass, I’ll be legally human.”
“Not the same.”
“Then aren’t you overloading the word?”
“No wonder you keep failing this test. You don’t do your homework.”
“How so?”
“That particular overload is nothing new.”
They meet for the last time in Sicily, near Pozzalo. The news is panicked with the sub-Mediterranean tremors, but these three knew weeks ago: they heard the flat note in the music of the world.
They stand on the beach as the tide rushes out too fast.
“Our biggest command performance ever,” chuckles Placido.
“At least,” says Luciano, “the whales will hear it.”
“Give us an E, Paulo?” Jose kindly asks his attendant.
Water thunders toward them, a hundred feet high. The boy blows a note on his pitch-pipe.
The Three Tenors open their mouths, and the tsunami hesitates.
“Well, your newts’ eyes need rotating,” Townsend informs her.
Tabitha waits.
“And we can re-groove the brake runes, top up your dryad’s milk and crushed tanzanite.” He takes the pen from behind his ear and pokes it into the pocket of his coveralls. “Honestly, though, Ma’am, I’d just drive it until it stops an leave it there. What’s the model year?”
“1039.”
“And what’s it run on, anyway?”
“Clarified virgin’s blood,” she sighs.
Townsend opens his mouth.
“If that’s going to be a joke about gas prices I will hit you in the neck,” Tabitha informs him.
Townsend shuts it.
