Mr. Lush is dreaming.
… Ho sbagliato tante volte ormai che lo so già
che oggi quasi certamente
sto sbagliando su di te
Ma una volta in più che cosa può cambiare
nella vita mia
Accettare questo strano appuntamento
è stata una pazzia …
Ornella Vanoni’s song plays on the radio of a British racing green sports car. His wife leans back into the cognac-coloured leather of the two-seater while he easily masters the meandering roads surrounding Lake Como to arrive at the Lush family’s ancestral holiday home. The occasional howling of the engine just serves to underline the atmosphere of a narcissistic capitalist wet dream. Mr Lush’s full head of hair blows in the wind while his tobacco two-piece linen suit, blue linen shirt, and oval Patfek Philippe resemble the accoutrement of a king.
However, the engine starts to whistle, Lush’s wife disappears, and Olivier the Ocelot stands in his apron, sporting an oven glove and Bialetti at the table of his rundown kitchen. Your warm morning caffeine beverage is served, whispers the ocelot with – deliberately exaggerated – maternal affection.
After a few sips of coffee, leaning out of the window frame, Lush lets out a meek Thank you, Olivier …. It was a rather tough night for Mr Lush; a night which ended with him falling asleep in his champagne-soiled dinner suit at the kitchen table at around four o’clock in the morning. He would not have been able to, nor did he want to, take Olivier to the Reform Club. At times, he cannot stand the eloquence and persistent know-it-all tendencies of his accidental ocelot companion. With every passing sip of coffee, Lush’s regret at his own selfish behaviour grows. Olivier has sworn eternal gratitude to Lush for granting him his freedom. He is only lives to pursue Lush’s well-being, and makes daily futile attempts to lead Lush to a happier life… Lush is cognisant of the ocelot’s good intentions.
You had another one of those dreams that make you so unhappy, didn’t you?, asks the ocelot. Mr. Lush nods and turns to the window in shame.
Why don´t you liberate yourself from the expectations of your “audience” and start creating your owns dreams and living your them out? Mr Lush knows that his feline friend is right. The elegant dreams of his class and their traditional symbols of power have always held sway over him. All this despite Lush knowing full well that his more (or less) privileged upbringing and his own lack of ambition will never allow him to fulfil even his most modest desires.
In your opinion, what should I do? Where should I start?, asks Lush, wafting the aroma of coffee at his companion.
Olivier winks – as only ocelots can – and answers: At the root.
So it shall be, grumbles Lush, tipping the last sip of coffee and striding to the shower.
I need a hero
I’m holding out for a hero till the end of the night
He’s gotta be strong
And he’s gotta be fast
And he’s gotta be fresh from the fight
I need a hero, sings Olivier.
