The Impossible Intelligence

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It was a warm and mild August night, with just the merest hint of rain in the distance—the kind of night on which there are few pleasures greater than a fine meal followed by a gramophone concert in the music room. And the meal was indeed fine; Mary Quinlan, our estimable factotum, had quite outdone herself with a magnificent roast capon, and the mouth of my friend and companion Dario di Cesare was literally watering as he deftly drew the cork from a bottle of chilled Chablis.

“Bene,” the little Italian muttered. “The obstinate obstruction gives way at last, and we are free to enjoy our wine!” He filled my glass lavishly. “Drink hearty, friend Star-buck, and proceed to attack your fowl with gusto—for the great talents of la Callas await us in the music room.”

Di Cesare had brought home but that afternoon a new album of operatic discs, and I knew that only the opulence of the meal Miss Quinlan had prepared had kept him from plunging at once toward our music room to surround himself with the wonderful melodies of Donizetti. For the peppery little psychoanalyst had brought with him from his native land—when forced by tyranny to leave twenty years before—the Italian’s fanatical devotion to opera.

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