What The Rich Men Did

They knew what they were doing, didn’t they?

Down where the acrid salt of the sea stings your calves and the yellow sand burns your back, where the greasy cerulean skies slur into the yachts on the horizon, where the droughting olive trees crowd the cliffs and the round-eyed village girls watch on, there is Mondello. Long abandoned by Vulcan and his hoard of slumbering deities, this is now a sanctuary to capitalist sin, rich with the fruit of the new generation, cloying in the mouths of the corpulent noveau riche. The gods, perhaps, slumber too deeply now to…