“Giamano, Tachiaco, bufote… ”
That is the best I can make out of the beginning of a scream that continues on a minute or two. The only word I have every really made out is basta (enough). Almost every day and often several times a day, these screams run across the valley behind the seminary. Evidently they come from one of the myriad of average Italian homes on the other side (the closest thing you have in North America is low-rise condos).
I just put up with it. I can sleep or study right through his outbursts. Some would refer to him as Loco Larry for such nonsensical hollering; I never really liked that as it seemed demeaning. Then, one day a brother said he walked across the creek and met him.
“His name is Genaro. Two of us went over and he seems pretty intelligent; he seems to know a lot. He says he is a prophet.”
I don’t know if he is a prophet or has a few screws loose but one thing that seems obvious is that calling him Genaro treats him like a human being.
