19
We’re studying Ravel now, and S. B plays us some of his music.
And suddenly the simple Pasha bursts out:
“So what if he is Ravel! Just a miserable chauffeur! Call this music?!”
S. B. says nothing, but I feel sorry for him. I happen to know he’s a fan of Debussy and Ravel, so quips like that must hurt him.
When a very self-confident visitor enters a fragrant rose garden, sniffs around and announces he only detects a faint smell of melon, well, all one can do is praise the Lord that one’s own nose is tuned somewhat differently.
I am sitting very close to S B., throwing him sidelong glances. He’s so old! I notice the crowns on his teeth, the plethora of wrinkles on his face. Then I turn my gaze to the wall, so that S. B. will not notice he is being scrutinised. The wall is old, too,
