He plays something weird: the organ screeches, breaks off, wheezes. Anathema, with eyes lifted dreamily to the sky, keeps time with his hand, and whistles.
SARAH.
My God, how badly it sounds.
ANATHEMA.
This, madam Leizer (whistles),—this is called the world harmony.
The conversation dies away for some time: only the screeching of the organ and the whistling of Anathema are heard. The sun is still shining mercilessly.
ANATHEMA.
I have nothing to do, so I wander over the world.
He is carried away by the playing of the organ. Suddenly the organ breaks off with a screech, which rings in the ears for a long time, and Anathema remains as petrified with uplifted hand.
ANATHEMA.