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Sofia Andrukhovych
yet begun to sprout on his
face. You feel like pinching
him. This is what I whispered
to Adela when he came out
to the hall for the first bow—
and she rolled her eyes and
painfully jabbedme in the ribs
with her deft sharp elbow.
But then, when this child
touched with his waxy
flexible fingers the toothy
maw of the piano, I became
ashamed. First he played
Mozart, Gluck, and Hummel,
only then Chopin’s waltzes
and Fantasie-Impromptu—
and I felt so ill, so out of sorts
because of those sounds, as if
I had no right to be there and
hear them: I, so insignificant,
and they, far too beautiful.
Oh no, now it was not so
funny for me that at the
age of seven Raoul Koczalski
won the prize of the Paris
Music Academy, that at the
age of eight he wrote his
first opera, that at the age
of eleven he played his one
thousandth recital, and at
the age of twelve performed
in front of Naser al-Din, the
shah of Persia, who before
his death from the hands
of the assassins had the
opportunity to delight in the
boy’s talent and even bestow
on him the title of Court
Pianist and decorate himwith
the Order of the Lion and the
Sun. The sultan of Turkey and
the king of Spain also granted
the child honorific titles. And
how could I now sit so close
to him, this chubby blond
Lion and Sun, and listen to
his music?
There are far, far too many
holidays during the winter
season.
When I served breakfast
early this morning, Petro said,
“Our help is so intellectual.
I wouldn’t be surprised if