garden party with the German officer who’s now his valet, no longer Marilyn, an older gentleman, face withered, skin peppered with age spots, who whispers a German name that Tristano doesn’t recall, the man has a monocle over his right eye and a stiff leg, maybe a false leg, who knows. In his dream, Tristano thinks that many German aristocrats lost a leg in the first world war, and then he thinks that this German might start dancing on the table, but that’s from reading books and watching movies, and dreams aren’t innocent … instead, with the unsurprised surprise of dreams, the German baron with the monocle starts speaking in English, says I’m American, and then he whispers other things lost in the murmuring of the guests, freedom … freedom … please, let me introduce you to the other guests, and his voice is icy, metallic, creaking like his false leg … What a nightmare … but it’s not a real nightmare, because I’m awake now, so I’m not telling you my dream, I’m telling you something I see, now and then this something will let go of me, like now, I’ve escaped, but then it sucks me back in as if I’m really living it, look, I’m not telling you my nightmare, it’s something real, I’m in the midst of it, must be all those drugs together, and then my head’s exploding, just exploding … Tristano, honey … He turned around: Marilyn was at the back of the garden, and she was dressed like a little girl, with bows in her pigtails, she was lying in the grass, her skirts pulled up to her belly, legs spread, behind her was a seaport with the words freedom harbor written out, and beside her was some stranger, balding, squat, round-faced, smiling, join us, this pipsqueak muttered, this is the revolution, but Tristano didn’t understand … what’s that? This chubby pipsqueak asked if he knew how to shoot a gun, we need sharp guys like you, don’t bother with those idiots and their parties, we’re using them, they’re useful, and the worse they are the better, explain it to your boy, Rosamunda, what kind of a partisan is he, anyway? — join us, Tristano, it’s time to kill — haven’t you figured that out yet? — explain it to him, Marilyn, tell him it’s time to kill … his voice lingering like an echo, kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiillll. Someone tapped his shoulder, a tall man, ugly, with a huge nose and a crooked smile, let me introduce you to the head of state of the sunken republic, Big Nose whispered in Tristano’s ear, he has very close contacts who can provide all kinds of services, treat him with the proper respect, he’s got more dead enemies on his conscience than there are grapes in a vineyard. Then Big Nose and the decorated military man took him by the elbows and steered him toward the huge barbecue pit blazing on the far side of the garden, gathered around this pit was a group of maybe ten little old men with white eyebrows carrying plates and nibbling on sausages, the air smelled entirely different in this part of the garden, more of a country fair, a sausage festival, with a tune playing that seemed familiar to Tristano but that he couldn’t place, coming from an old gramophone by the braziers. Cloned Mr. Presidents of the future republic, shouted Big Nose, it is my distinct privilege to present to you a great national hero, a man who drove out the invader — celebrate him now, before he kicks you in the ass! The ten little old men started joyfully skipping about, tossing their sausages in the air, singing the anthem along with the gramophone, si è cinto la testa, si è cinto la testa! But at that moment, out from the bush popped a squat bulldog of a fellow in a double-breasted jacket, who stomped arrogantly over to Tristano and said, friend, don’t listen to the proletarian revolutionaries, don’t listen to these old farts from the retirement home, listen to me, I’m the one who’s going to be in charge, the founder of the Pippopippi Republic, you want to be appointed manager of a top-notch program? The squat fellow licked his lips and out shot a chameleon-like tongue that washed his entire face clean. I’m your future, my dear partisan, he said, his tone of voice brooked no reply, I’m the reason you fought in the mountains, if you didn’t know it, so listen up, I’m going to tell you one thing and one thing only because I have a bass dinner waiting for me that my cook prepared, so here it is: Christ brought too many people from the East to our door, he was a Bedouin, he rode along on a donkey just to annoy to us — we’re a car-based civilization …