Here on the bottom shelf, right in the corner, here is his favorite pair of Genevieve’s shoes. He gets them out every time he comes in here. Flat, black patent leather, with an ankle strap and a cute little button. The toes are scuffed, and the soles worn. He can just imagine her in them—running about, hopping, jumping a rope. She must have been eight or nine years old when she wore these shoes. The thought of her as a little girl, wide-eyed, makes him melt.

She would have put on her mother’s shoes, the child-Genevieve. Clopping about and pretending to be a grand lady. Admiring herself in the mirror. He remembers his sister doing this, back when they were kids. He supposes it’s a game all little girls play. But Genevieve has carried on playing it.

Robert stands looking at the Mary Janes for some time. Relishing the intimacy of the moment. He smiles to himself, and acknowledges the smile.

( twelve )

MARCEL HAD SPINDLY YELLOW fingers, long enough to spider up and down the piano keys, while his wrists hardly moved. His shoulders were hunched up from the many thousands of hours he’d spent playing. His back was permanently bent over, and his legs were stiff. For years he’d sat on a stool that was too high, and by the time he’d been told as much, it was too late to change his habits. And he had a way of peering at people as if they were notes on a stave and he was trying to decipher them through myopic eyes. In truth, the piano playing was slowly destroying him. But it was his whole life.