III.
One day, when she came in, she heard the sound of the piano. The knocking of loose hammers on dead wires, the light, hacking clang of chords rolling like dead drum taps: Droom—Droom, Droom-era-room.
Alone in the dusk, Mamma was playing the Hungarian March, bowing and swaying as she played.
When the door opened she started up, turning her back on the piano, frightened, like a child caught in a play it is ashamed of. The piano looked mournful and self-conscious.
Then suddenly, all by itself, it shot out a cry like an arrow, a pinging, stinging, violently vibrating cry.
"I'm afraid," Mamma said, "something's happened to the piano."