2
His visitor disappeared into the night, letting some of it into the house on his way out. N. began playing Beethoven’s seventh symphony, the finale, on his imaginary keyboard, i.e. the table. His fingers begged for sound, but there was only a hollow knocking.
“What will remain of me?” his thoughts rambled on. “Will the Minotaur swallow everything? Will music remain? But I don’t compose. Love? It will be effaced together with me. And what will remain of my love for Beta, for music? Just somebody else’s music, nothing more.”
The knocking of his fingers on the table was accompanied by a determined rustling somewhere in the house innards. It went on all night, hindering sleep.
Overcoming it at last, N. penetrated the world of dreams. He dreamt he was reading a newspaper, a rare event in
