Fred stops in his tracks. He has reached his limit and decides to satisfy her. “He said she’s good in bed.”

Lena is dumbstruck. Her face is pinched, she looks furious. With a cold ferocity she says to her father, “You didn’t actually have to tell me that, Pa.”

She sets off at a swift pace, leaving her father alone in the middle of the valley, while the two notes the boy was practising start playing in his head, not on the violin but rather on a sullen bassoon.

*

In the midst of all the steam from the saunas and the Turkish baths, naked bodies of all ages appear dead in the half-light, abandoned in the heat and sweat.

Bodies toned and gleaming, bodies large and round, ancient bodies falling to pieces. This is what the effort to be healthy looks like. This is how some people try to prolong the future or awkwardly try to pursue the youthful past.

*

And then there are the outlines of human beings buried with their eyes closed in bathtubs under compresses of warm, fresh hay, like living meadows, stationary still lifes, while the bassoon plays at a discreet volume without ever deviating from those two simple notes.

22

Candles, incense and subdued lighting.

Fred and Lena are stretched out naked on marble tables on their backs, completely covered in compresses of dark mud. They seem like two figures left petrified after a volcanic eruption. Only their eyes are free of mud and they stare lifelessly at the ceiling across which dull soft lights play hypnotically.

A little clumsily, Fred tries to act the father. “I do understand you, Lena. I really do, believe me.”

Lena remains silent. But later, when she does reply, she speaks clearly, angrily and without mercy. “You do understand me, do you, Pa? Like hell you do! My mother would have understood me. My mother, who found herself in the state I’m now in dozens of times. And pretended not to notice. You’ve been with dozens and dozens of women and she simply had to cope with it and get by. Not only for us children, but also – and above all – for you. She loved you and forgave you. She wanted to stay with you no matter what. But who did she want to stay with? I mean, who? That’s what I asked her. A man who never gave anything in return, that’s who. You never gave a thing. To her, to me – nothing. You gave yourself to your music, that’s what. There was nothing else in your life. Only music. And a lack of feeling. Never a touch, a hug, a kiss – nothing. You’ve never known anything about your children, if they were upset or were happy. Nothing. Everything was on my mother’s shoulders. You only said three words to her at home: ‘Melanie, quiet, please.’ And she had to tell us, ‘Quiet, your father’s composing’, ‘Be quiet, your father’s resting before his concert tonight’, ‘Be quiet, your father’s resting after his concert’, ‘Be quiet, your father’s talking to someone important on the telephone’, ‘Be quiet, Stravinsky’s coming to visit your father today.’ You wanted to be like Stravinsky, only you didn’t have the tiniest bit of his genius. ‘Quiet, please, Melanie!’ That’s all you knew how to say. You never knew a thing about my mother. You never cared one bit about what she went through. And even now, it’s been ten years since you took her any flowers. And as for that letter! Do you think she never read it? Well, you’re wrong. She found it and she read it. And I found it, too. Perhaps you don’t even remember it, but we do. The letter in which you declared your love for another man. My mother had to endure that humiliation as well. ‘My necessary sexual experiments . . .’ That’s what you said. Musical experiments weren’t enough for you, you had to try out homosexual ones as well! You didn’t give a fuck about my mother’s suffering. So don’t come to me and say you understand, because you don’t understand anything for shit.”