A loft of one's own

Cinque .. dieci .. venti .. trenta

I never wished for you to have to know about this, Martin. Now I sup-pose it can't be helped. You know that dreary way that da Ponte opens the first act of Figaro for Mozart, with a plodding low-life pacing off his nuptial garret? Well, the Met were broadcasting the matinée yes-terday and Gérard, heaven help us, caught it all, coming in from JFK. And as we speak, he's scouring Corcoran's listings for a loft in the garment district. Of course if there's anything seedier than a man who'll live above himself, it's one who goes the other way. And just when we spent all summer, persuading him to invest in Capri.

Now I wonder if I shouldn't blame myself in this, because I was the one who wanted to show him the view from Malaparte's. Well, you were there, you remember. All he could talk about was how japon-esque it was, to bring the window so low to the floor, and how with a frame like that, one could make one's own view. I tell you, mon cher, we've never given proper weight to his vulnerabiities. I fear he's taking Beaumarchais literally in that opera, and I must say, Martin, I love him but I ask myself, can he be helped?