Frankfurt, Germany, 1971
The gods must be pleased with me in some way because I have managed to leave Istanbul, if only for a little while. Edmund is back there in the mud with the one-eyed cats and the chickens and I am writing to you from Frankfurt, Germany en route to the United States.
I hope you’re doing well. I’m feeling lighter, as I always do when traveling.
My toe is over there, on the credenza, and I am thinking of you. There is nothing I would like more than to have you here, comforting me and telling me that everything is going to be alright, but alas, I am alone with Edmund and my remaining nine toes.
Edmund is in the salon with the shattered remains of our piano. He’d taken up trying to learn to play the piano again, so I took it upon myself to stop him because of the discomfort his playing caused to creatures great and small.
The crash and spectacle of the piano tumbling down a flight of stairs was extremely satisfying, although it destroyed the rail and most of the steps. I suspect that we’ll have to pay for that – even though I feel that I already have with my toe. I lost that because the piano became lodged just above the final step, and Edmund was good enough to attempt pushing it onto me.
Should you ever decide to come and visit us, please bring a hammer and some nails.