After that he plays the Impromptu in A-flat Major by Schubert, and Bach’s Chromatic Fantasy, the Partita in E Minor, and the third movement of Mozart’s B-flat Piano Concerto. Sometimes he nods his head in time, sometimes he says: Isn’t that extraordinary? Sometimes it’s she who says: This is beautiful. Sometimes she asks: Who is playing now? And he answers: Artur Rubinstein, Glenn Gould, Clara Haskil, as the case might be. Between the Bach and the Mozart, she had to go out to pee and in the bathroom, she saw his son’s cord jeans hanging up to dry. In front of the mirror is the little bottle with the perfume that makes the apartment smell so nice, Chanel No. 5. And three toothbrushes in one mug. And the wife’s nightie dropped on a stool and — why not — left there. Come, darling May, and put the buds back on the trees, the piano wishes at the end, but it’s July now, the summer evening outside has turned into a summer night, the bottle of wine is empty. Do you feel hungry? Sure. Then let’s go eat. Sure.