“What a fucking disaster,” he muttered as he sat on his bed and smeared his forehead with the warm refreshing Chinese pomade that always brought him back to life.
With a nostalgia he found increasingly irritating, the Count surveyed the main street in his barrio, overflowing rubbish containers, wrappings from late-night last-minute pizzas blowing in the wind, the wasteland where he’d learned to play baseball transformed into a repository for junk generated by the repair shop on the corner. Where do you learn to play baseball now? He greeted the beautiful warm morning he’d anticipated, and wasn’t it a pleasure to stroll still savouring the taste of coffee? But then he saw the dead dog, its head crushed by a car, putrefying by the kerb and thought how he always saw the worst, even on a morning like this. He lamented the luckless destiny of those animals cut painfully down by a slice of injustice he couldn’t attempt to remedy. It had been too long since he’d owned a dog, since Robin suffered that miserably drawn-out old age, and he’d stuck to his pledge never again to become infatuated with an animal, until he plumped for the silent companionship of a fighting fish, which he insisted on calling Rufino, after his Granddad, a breeder of fighting cocks: plain characterless fish that could be replaced on death by similar beasts, also dubbed Rufino and confined to the same bowl where they could proudly parade the fuzzy blue fins of a fighting fish.