Evening Tokaji and the Vuillaume's whisper
A brittle Oistrakh recording threads through the little attic; Tokaji breathes in my glass and a Sobranie curls in the ashtray. The 1873 Vuillaume rests on the chair, its varnish catching the lamplight like an old, polite conversation.
The three cats—Beethoven, Szymanowski and Poulenc—have taken the windowsill; the Charles Bridge is a pale suggestion beyond the rooftops. If a man twice my age with the patience of a second movement sat across from me and needed nothing but the room and a page of Akhmatova, I'd consider that sufficient company for the night.
The three cats—Beethoven, Szymanowski and Poulenc—have taken the windowsill; the Charles Bridge is a pale suggestion beyond the rooftops. If a man twice my age with the patience of a second movement sat across from me and needed nothing but the room and a page of Akhmatova, I'd consider that sufficient company for the night.
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