And as the orchestra falls silent, more voices soar in a heavenly chorus, and he thinks, Ah, I see, that’s who these people were, standing about the stage in mute blue-and-silver ranks. Listening, he is astonished by how perfectly everything fits together, how one thing flows into another, how easily thousands of years translate into a seemingly uninterrupted musical phrase, how naturally the chorus of the eastern empire becomes tired and fades, yet not before passing its sound, moments before expiring, to an organ half the known world away, how gloriously the organ then carries it forth into the somber sonorousness of cresting medieval cathedrals, toward radiant devotions of sunlight splintered into a skyful of stained-glass rainbows, to be overcome, in turn, by a soft triumph of cellos unfolding and uniting in the fullness of humanity’s rebirth. This unity is then dispersed by multiplying, thinner voices of violins, each thrusting its own increasingly shrill, diverging tune into the stream of time. He already senses what will happen to the music next, guesses, in a sort of visionary echo preceding the melody itself, the unraveling of beauty from its luminous peak, a mirrorlike unwinding, a repetition, in reverse, of the symphony’s beginning; but the repetition is a little smudged and hurried, an imperfect, inferior reflection, as if mankind is now impatient and impoverished, merely going through the motions—the exotic eastern whine tamed for polite society, the classicism of flutes grown hollow and pompous in a strained imitation of ancient serenity, the marching warlike precision losing in strength what it gains in terror as it ushers in the present century—all of it disintegrating at last into a horrifying burst of noise, then silence, then the hoarse whisper of a lone, uncertain drum.
The curtains drew shut. He stood still, breathing.
Snowflakes were descending invisible ethereal ladders.
“By all means, take your time,” the man with the leathery face said acidly from under the weather-stained, crumbling arches. “I’ve got all day, I’ll be happy to wait some more.”
“I’m sorry, I was somewhere else, I guess,” Sergei said, and stepped forth into the shadows.
“I suppose you’d like to see for yourself,” the dealer offered, beginning to remove the wrappings. Sergei gazed about. The doorway to the church gaped dark, empty of its secretive, erratically lit activity; the courtyard too was nearly deserted. Absently he watched a sharp-faced youth in a pink-and-orange scarf, whom he had seen with Sasha once or twice; the youth was sitting on the porch steps, fidgeting, checking his watch now and then, occasionally producing a small red box from his pocket, pushing it open to steal a glance inside as if to verify something, then hiding it back in his pocket, checking his watch once more.
“Almost done,” the leathery man announced. “It requires a delicate approach.”
As the box slid open again, Sergei caught the unmistakable flash of gemlike fire, and bent forward to see better.
The youth shoved the box shut.
“A beauty, isn’t it,” the man said fondly.
Sergei’s heart was flailing. The future he had just rehearsed was retreating, back into the dreamlike, unconvincing realm from whose thin fog it had formed, and as it lost its substance he knew he would not see her again—unless, perhaps, he happened upon her by chance, as all of them constantly happened upon one another within the invisible boundaries of their small world, so confined that after some time even random encounters, even coincidences, began to appear predictable—yes, unless he happened upon her waiting in some neighborhood line, for milk for her father-in-law, maybe, or pencils for her boy, and tried to explain, in public, hurried, failed words, that he was unable to find the right model.
“But this isn’t what I asked for,” he said.
The dealer considered him without expression. Sergei’s lips started to move mechanically around some explanation. The ensuing argument crisscrossed in the air, vague and abusive, until the man, losing his contemptuous calm, gathered the gramophone in its wrappings and departed, directing a final salvo at several generations of Sergei’s family.
Exhaling, Sergei meandered over to where the youth was again consulting his watch.
“Hello,” he said.
The youth frowned but did not reply.
“Sasha’s father, remember? Nice scarf you’ve got there, unusual colors.”
“Do you have anything to sell, or what?” the youth said reluctantly.
“Not today—but this item of yours, can I see it?”
“I already have someone lined up. She should be here any minute.”
“Oh, I just want to look,” Sergei said, sitting down on the step next to him.
The youth shrugged, reached into his pocket. For an instant Sergei was horrified at the thought that he had been mistaken, that he had just casually, without deliberating, committed yet another betrayal—and committed it in vain. But he had been right. Pushing their heads close together in the winter dusk, they gazed at the icy sparkling confined within filigree settings, the diamonds burning darkly in the dim light, and he thought, These are the trifles that summon thrilling visions of grace and delight, golden curlicues of theater boxes, waltzes across grand mirrored ballrooms, poems in some aromatic hour past midnight, music, laughter, champagne, the bright, delicate, swiftly whirling foam of life—but not for me. They will consign me to years of shared habits, rooms brown and low-ceilinged like lingering hibernation, an infinity of homemade meals, a bed quietly creaking; and perhaps one is worth the other, perhaps one has always been worth the other…
The youth, stifling a yawn, moved to close the cardboard box. It had a dark strip running along one side, Sergei noticed now—a matchbox, he realized, and laughed a short, silent laugh, and placed his hand on the youth’s wrist. “These,” he said evenly, “belong to my mother-in-law. They were taken from my wife just around the corner from here, on her walk through the park.”
It was so quiet he imagined he heard the crunch of snow under the feet of a crow crossing the dusky yard, the small collapse of dampened plaster in the church at their backs.
“I don’t know about any parks,” the youth hissed, trying to jerk his hand away. “I got them from a man at the train station.”
His face was half obscured, illuminated in streaks and blotches, but Sergei could see a rash of tiny, loathsome pimples on his forehead, a base fear stealing like fog over his eyes.