Mario, a charcter not easy to forget.

A few weeks ago I met Mario. We were queuing up to be served through the services
of the local state health service. Mario absorbed my complete attention. I usually spend the waiting time reading, firstly because reading, besides golf, is one other of my favourtie pastimes,and secondly waiting time seems to be shortened that way.
I must admit at the outset that he had a very colourful character, a balanced DNA (!) and some uniqueness
in talking and posturing. Never before had I realised that a semi-illiterate senile could present such a wonderful impact on his listeners.
He was short and portly, almost verging on obesity. He spoke in clear articulated
native language, which was peppered at times by some low-grade objectionable phraseology,
which after all, gave more colour to his savoir-faire.
He was closely attached to his old fashioned bone pipe, at which he puffed in continuity,
and in the process wasted at least a full box of matches. Apparently his tobacco lacked
combustable elements. Looks like lighting and re-lighting made pipe-smoking a more dramatic affair.
His tobacco had a sweet soft aroma, which reminded me of my habit a few decades ago.
The half-dozen other patients queuing up with him made it abundantly clear
that his presence with them was not welcome even though they were all queuing outdoors,
where smoking is still allowed. But smokers to-day have lost not only their in-door smoking rights,
but smoking is probited in most other places !
Back to Mario.

My unfair underestimation was soon corrected. He insisted that he read many books in his leisure time.
I wondered how much free time he had. “Plenty,” he confirmed, “especially during the years I spent at the local mental institution.”

He started off with Shakespeare. He gave a list of tragedies, comedies and other plays by the bard,
sprinkling with quotations to make his tirade more emphatic.
Even Madame Butterfly was penned by the dramatist, he argued. My corrective remarks were not enough
to make him change his mind. Probably he was mixing the Fly in the Butter with Othello,
the former being a musical opera written by Giacomo Puccini
and the latter both a Shakespearean tragedy and musical opera by Gioacchino Rossini.
A rather forgiveable inaccuracy given the peculiar circumstances. What Mario affirmed was
to be taken as gospel truth, and no questions allowed.
Full-stop: end of argument.
Then world known artists took the stage. He mentioned Van Gogh, Picasso, Moore, and a few more.
But at the end of the list came the greatest of them all, who were Leonardo da Vinci and Michaelangelo,
whom he insisted were the mainstays of all the new and the old schools. All the mentioned VIP’s,
as he referred to them, were placed on a fairly accurate time-line.
The first light of day, on early autumn mornings, was always belated, which was quite noticeable by all
who stood and patiently waited for the entrance doors to be opened. The belated early morning light
was an inspiration to launch Mario on a discussion on Galileo and Copernicus,
their feats and disappointments. He described the seasonal position of Earth in relation to the Sun,
with reasonable accuracy. The days’ duration and the seasons were directly dependent on this.
In the process he often lifted the cap he was wearing to scratch the white skin on his head,
which contrasted very sharply with the tan on the rest of his head. But it was a fitting gesture,
which gave his natural acting, a flair of credibility.
Other areas were explored: sports, physics, medicine, general scientific topics, all in a breathless,
more often than not, soliloquy. The opening of the entrance doors, contrasting with the closing of the stage curtain, put an abrupt end to the conversation. It was time for Mario to have his blood tested for atrial fibrillation.
On his way out Mario was reading the report of his test. It read:

The patient’s life is gentle, and the elements
So mix’d in him that Nature might stand up
And say “This is a man!.”

With apologies to Mark Anthony and the bard.