Our old friend and fellow traveler, Santos Dumont, met us at the café on the square in centre ville this morning. He was late, as usual, and blamed his tardiness on his blameless car, a 1998 Cent-six with a dented passenger door and no hubcaps. He was a little wild-eyed from, he insisted, an all-night vigil.
“The rising of Sirius,” he said, tipping back his hat and gazing toward the mountains, as if the dog star might still be there.
Later, after he had calmed down, Santos Dumont said, “Absurdity just isn’t what it used to be.”
“Nothing is,” I said.
He lit his morning cigar, handed me a package, and said, “Absurdity, old fellow, is not what you think it is.”
Later, we screened the film.