“THIS STUNNING GOLDEN CHARACTER,” the psychologist said at the party. “This golden character. I understand you, you know, I understand why you like her. And I have spoken with her. She’s said you’ve changed.” Earlier in the euphoria, a young messenger had arrived looking, again, like Robert Downey, Jr., in the 1980s. Why did so many characters look like him of all people? He had with him some kind of horsehair brooch, which included the crest of a noble Cossack family. I took a look at this peculiar thing and tried to bite into it, and felt some of the horse hair get stuck in my teeth. Then I struggled to pull the hairs out, one by one. When I did so, half my front teeth came out, and I tried to jiggle them back into place. This might require a trip to the dentist, I thought. Would they have to screw the teeth back into place? Later, the wood delivery man Rasmus arrived, but he brought only a truck full of furniture. How was I supposed to fill my furnace with mattresses and chairs? He also brought two scampering kittens, one white, one striped, which my daughter immediately fell in love with. The striped cat stayed with her, but the white one ran away, and I was dispatched to find it. The last thing I remember, I was standing by the roundabout on the outskirts of Adelfia, that small town on the periphery of Bari where my relatives live, searching for the white cat.