By dm gillis
On the second day after he arrived, Caravaggio swallowed a handful of pebbles.
“It’s the food, Yorick,” he said. “It’s indigestible any other way.”
“Stones seem a tad extreme,” I said. “Or, maybe it’s just unusual. But let’s keep it to ourselves.”
We were sitting together at English Bay. He, near weeping. Me, with my arm round his shoulder, trying to comfort him.
Caravaggio was the name that he’d chosen for himself, after Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, the Baroque, Renaissance artist.
I’d reserved a computer for him at the Joe Fortes Library, the day before. There, he’d scanned what he could of the web in the fifteen minutes allotted, and in the process, somehow managed to shut down the Vancouver Public Library’s citywide servers. But before he did, he’d seen the Italian painter’s work, and immediately adopted his name.