“Anoush lied to him! She told him he was a fool as she was already married to a rich Sultan. I’m sorry to hurt your feelings. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. . He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. I leaned over and looked at him—he was quite still.
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