Oliver's Story [antikvár]

1 June 1969 'Olivér, you're sick.' Tm what?' 'You're very sick.' The expert who pronounced this startiing diagnosis had come late in life to medicine. In fact, until today I thought he was a pastry chef. His name was Philip Cavilleri. Once upon a time his daughter Jenny was my wife. She died. And we remained, our legacy from her to be each other's guardian. Therefore once a month I'd either visit him in Cranston, where we'd bowl and booze and eat exotic pizzás. Or he would jóin me in New York to run an equally exciting gamut of activities. But today as he descended from the train, instead of greeting me with somé affectionate obscenity, he shouted. 'Olivér, you're sick.' 'Really, Philip? In your sage professional opinion, what the hell is wrong with me ?' 'You aren't married.' Then without expatiating further, he just turnéd and, leatherette valise in hand, he headed for the exit. 1