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She
walked
past
the
door
of
a
night
club
.
A
couple
came
staggering
out
to
a
taxicab
.
The
girl
had
blurred
eyes
,
a
perspiring
face
,
an
ermine
cape
and
a
beautiful
evening
gown
that
had
slipped
off
one
shoulder
like
a
slovenly
housewife
’
s
bathrobe
,
revealing
too
much
of
her
breast
,
not
in
a
manner
of
daring
,
but
in
the
manner
of
a
drudge
’
s
indifference
.
Her
escort
steered
her
,
gripping
her
naked
arm
;
his
face
did
not
have
the
expression
of
a
man
anticipating
a
romantic
adventure
,
but
the
sly
look
of
a
boy
out
to
write
obscenities
on
fences
.
What
had
she
hoped
to
find
?
—
she
thought
,
walking
on
.
These
were
the
things
men
lived
by
,
the
forms
of
their
spirit
,
of
their
culture
,
of
their
enjoyment
.
She
had
seen
nothing
else
anywhere
,
not
for
many
years
.
At
the
corner
of
the
street
where
she
lived
,
she
bought
a
newspaper
and
went
home
.
Her
apartment
was
two
rooms
on
the
top
floor
of
a
skyscraper
.
The
sheets
of
glass
in
the
corner
window
of
her
living
room
made
it
look
like
the
prow
of
a
ship
in
motion
,
and
the
lights
of
the
city
were
like
phosphorescent
sparks
on
the
black
waves
of
steel
and
stone
.
When
she
turned
on
a
lamp
,
long
triangles
of
shadow
cut
the
bare
walls
,
in
a
geometrical
pattern
of
light
rays
broken
by
a
few
angular
pieces
of
furniture
.
She
stood
in
the
middle
of
the
room
,
alone
between
sky
and
city
.
There
was
only
one
thing
that
could
give
her
the
feeling
she
wanted
to
experience
tonight
;
it
was
the
only
form
of
enjoyment
she
had
found
.
She
turned
to
a
phonograph
and
put
on
a
record
of
the
music
of
Richard
Halley
.
It
was
his
Fourth
Concerto
,
the
last
work
he
had
written
.
The
crash
of
its
opening
chords
swept
the
sights
of
the
streets
away
from
her
mind
.
The
Concerto
was
a
great
cry
of
rebellion
.
It
was
a
"
No
"
flung
at
some
vast
process
of
torture
,
a
denial
of
suffering
,
a
denial
that
held
the
agony
of
the
struggle
to
break
free
.
The
sounds
were
like
a
voice
saying
:
There
is
no
necessity
for
pain
—
why
,
then
,
is
the
worst
pain
reserved
for
those
who
will
not
accept
its
necessity
?
—
we
who
hold
the
love
and
the
secret
of
joy
,
to
what
punishment
have
we
been
sentenced
for
it
,
and
by
whom
?
.
.
.
The
sounds
of
torture
became
defiance
,
the
statement
of
agony
became
a
hymn
to
a
distant
vision
for
whose
sake
anything
was
worth
enduring
,
even
this
.
It
was
the
song
of
rebellion
—
and
of
a
desperate
quest
.
She
sat
still
,
her
eyes
closed
,
listening
.
No
one
knew
what
had
happened
to
Richard
Halley
,
or
why
.
The
story
of
his
life
had
been
like
a
summary
written
to
damn
greatness
by
showing
the
price
one
pays
for
it
.
It
had
been
a
procession
of
years
spent
in
garrets
and
basements
,
years
that
had
taken
the
gray
tinge
of
the
walls
imprisoning
a
man
whose
music
overflowed
with
violent
color
.
It
had
been
the
gray
of
a
struggle
against
long
flights
of
unlighted
tenement
stairs
,
against
frozen
plumbing
,
against
the
price
of
a
sandwich
in
an
ill
-
smelling
delicatessen
store
,
against
the
faces
of
men
who
listened
to
music
,
their
eyes
empty
.
It
had
been
a
struggle
without
the
relief
of
violence
,
without
the
recognition
of
finding
a
conscious
enemy
,
with
only
a
deaf
wall
to
batter
,
a
wall
of
the
most
effective
soundproofing
:
indifference
,
that
swallowed
blows
,
chords
and
screams
—
a
battle
of
silence
,
for
a
man
who
could
give
to
sounds
a
greater
eloquence
than
they
had
ever
carried
—
the
silence
of
obscurity
,
of
loneliness
,
of
the
nights
when
some
rare
orchestra
played
one
of
his
works
and
he
looked
at
the
darkness
,
knowing
that
his
soul
went
in
trembling
,
widening
circles
from
a
radio
tower
through
the
air
of
the
city
,
but
there
were
no
receivers
tuned
to
hear
it
.
