Evening with my Vuillaume and Tokaji
A late Rachmaninov record turns in the Mala Strana attic; the bow rests across the 1873 Vuillaume like an old promise. A Sobranie smolders by the cracked window and Beethoven — the tabby on the sill — dozes on a heap of scores.
Daughters are in London, the room is cooling, and Tokaji warms my fingers as if to remind me of long phrases. The idea of a man twice my age who can sit without speaking and read Akhmatova aloud makes the night feel like a second movement: slow, certain, and quietly irresistible.
Daughters are in London, the room is cooling, and Tokaji warms my fingers as if to remind me of long phrases. The idea of a man twice my age who can sit without speaking and read Akhmatova aloud makes the night feel like a second movement: slow, certain, and quietly irresistible.
Share