“I give them exactly what they want. Maybe you won't find my stories in any guidebook, but what's the difference?”
“Who knows if the stuff in the guidebooks isn't made up too, only no one remembers any more.”
“Besides, what do you mean by true and untrue? Who can be sure what happened here a thousand or two thousand years ago? Can you?”
The others admitted they couldn't. “There you are, then!” Guido cried triumphantly.
“How can you call my stories untrue? Things may have happened just the way I say they did, in which case I've been telling the gospel truth.”
It was hard to counter an argument like that, especially when you were up against a fast talker like Guido.
Unfortunately for him, however, not many tourists wanted to see the amphitheater, so he often had to turn his hand to other jobs.
When the occasion arose he would act as park-keeper, dog walker, deliverer of love letters, mourner at funerals,
witness at weddings, souvenir seller, cat's meat man, and many other things besides. But Guido dreamed of becoming rich and famous someday.
He planned to live in a fabulously beautiful mansion set in spacious grounds, to eat off gold plates and sleep between silken sheets.
He pictured himself as resplendent in his future fame as a kind of sun, and the rays of that sun already warmed him in his poverty.
“I'll do it, too,” he would exclaim when other people scoffed at his dreams. “You mark my words!”
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