We were in Mexico and Sylvianne said, “You must meet him. He’s gorgeous.” She fluttered her hands like she does and sat down beneath the Modigliani and assumed the same pose. As she kept waving her hands her fingers grew longer and when she tucked up her legs to hide her thick ankles, she looked just like the picture. As I sat watching her transformation, a man came into the room. His face was flat like an Eskimo, or like an ancient Olmec carving. “Isn’t he gorgeous?” Sylvianne said. “Perhaps to an anthropologist,” I answered. “But that’s what I am,” she cried. The man shifted the gun belts across his shoulders and said nothing.