I have taken a job in Crete, λέει, where I am living in a vast house. To cross the open-plan rooms requires several minutes, and depending on which floor I’m occupying, answering the door could be quite an expedition. It’s as if I’m the sole occupant of a major branch of John Lewis. So, as I’m exploring the levels and expanses of contemporary furniture, showroom after showroom of it, I come across a naked young man asleep on one of my umpteen billion sofas. I approach him with commingled curiosity, apprehension and lust, and as I do so he awakes and stands up. The lust doesn’t last long; deucedly plain lad, unfortunately, and as you do in dreams, I note with disappointment but no particular surprise that although he has balls, he has no cock.
The boy has some connection with the previous tenant of the mega-house and their business is clearly unresolved, as now another young man shows up, leading a posse of dangerous-looking local lads. Boys one and two hold a brief colloquy before the gang contrive to draw curtains between me and the first boy, and behind them set about him with clubs. The curtains are blown dramatically upwards and apart just as the lad’s head is smashed like a coconut.
A group of local women arrives. One of them rouses me as I am dozing on one of my day-beds - I have trillions - and tells me I am welcome to visit anyone in the town. I should call on Kyría [= Mrs] So-and-So, whose speciality is some delicious confection made with cherries. I am given to understand that everyone is hospitable and generous, but to use that irritating cliché, there’s the Elephant in the Room. It is left unspoken, but it seems that getting shut of the corpse of that that poor, broken, dickless boy is to be entirely my affair.
So how about that?
“Men get into trouble by taking their visions and hallucinations too seriously.” – H. L. Mencken