° Young Giac is forever finding himself in a garden: his grandmother’s, la vedova A------’s, the tattered box parterre of the local Twelve Oaks, the overgrown acanthusmulched shrubberies of Valadier, the highshade gravelwalks of Villa Sciara just down the street. Here on the bare rock, under the cold light of February, he stumbles across Ifigenia’s Girl Scout Service Project, still burgeoning after 3500 years of neglect.
° The Argive blood is osmosing up the capillaries of the anemones, like narcissus or camellia sucking up cakecolour.
° Whose blood?
° Is it Ifigenia’s?
° Agamemnon’s?
° Clytemnestra’s?
° Boytoy’s?
° It can’t be Boytoy’s cannibalised siblings’ blood, by now it’d be plumb brown.
° Young Giac knows it is Clytemnestra’s.
° Your own answer tells you di che tipo sei.
° Del tipo PapaVaccaPatriarcha?
° Del tipo HitlerTrumanStalino?
° Del tipo Gianni Cochranno?
° Del tipo Anna Franc?
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° Or is it, after all, Clytemnestra’s?
° Timetravelling, Giac.
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