While expounding upon the sordid tales of Don Napoleon's activities in organized crime, a quite unrelated feeling of dread begins to seep into his mind. He is here for sanctuary. His -- hosts? -- the priests who are giving him sanctuary -- are listening to these stories... He looks down at his plate. There is still a lot of food. He supposes he has been too busy with his stories to eat. But he also remembers eating steak, and now there is some sort of fish. Or is it chicken? The wine glass continues to be full. He takes a sip of wine. A bite of food. He sets his fork down.
I am finished telling stories, he says.
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