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violins have gone, the brass and woodwinds have gone. The orchestra has
just finished a Paganini concerto. The basses and cellos lie on the
floor or recline against chairs weary and unimpressed. They are like
soldiers or prisoners on a ten-minute break and no one has any
cigarettes. In a far corner, dressed in black, the drummer hunches over
the tympany like a raven picking over a rabbit killed on the highway or
like an old woman bending over a kettle brewing a poison to be painted
on telephone poles to kill all the woodpeckers. He tunes and tests the
drum. He puts his ear close. What does he hear? A distant storm? A herd
of buffalo? Perhaps railroad crews working hard to lay down track a few
miles ahead of a locomotive, the cars richly furnished with carpet,
crystal and fine wine. The beautiful ladies and gentlemen come laughing
and talking down the aisles to find their seats. |