 THE PUTTI
By Will SelfTo consider a mustache, or even a goatee, was, at his age, he knew, absurd-especially as his face lacked all the resolution needed to carry it off. Weak-chinned and horsey of top lip, Tom stood in the gloomy presbytery of Santa Caterina and let the Baroque interior riot in his eyes. Outside the November day was drawing in-the threads of the coming night drawing tight the narrow alleys of the old city. In the church it was darker still, a tangible darkness that hung in the nave, beneath the barrel-vaulted ceiling. However, high above...
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