TE15 Lithuanian Honey Cake

The Grand Piano Room

it seemed) suddenly fell away. I could even recall the moment it had started, its first, as yet weak, flash: that moment in the studio when, having taken a brush into my hand I found I couldn’t paint because I had noticed the grand piano in the corner of the room. I hadn’t envisaged then, that that unfathomable, unfamiliar feeling that came over me was only the beginning. The beginning of something much worse. I wandered first into the snooker room. I touched the yellow ball, frozen on the green surface. It was quiet in there. Unnoticed, I went down to the woodwork room. Perfect order ruled there; the floor was sparklingly clean, the tools were ordered in three rows on the shelves. The beautiful turning bench was pulled out into the middle of the room. The studio stood in twilight and I drew open the blinds; diagonal rays of sunlight pierced the empty space. The colours on the canvas on the easel screamed of insanity. I lifted a tube that had fallen onto the floor. In the corner, in their usual place, stood the finished paintings, their faces towards the wall. I didn’t go to look at them; it was sufficient to know that, though they hid their content, they were there. As I climbed the stairs, the steps squeaked in the silence. The door to the grand piano room opened without a sound, as it always had. In the half-empty room with its parquet floor, the grand piano stood in its place with the Beethoven bust upon it. There was the stand

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