The President stood up, made the sign of the T and, switching on the synthetic
music, let loose the soft indefatigable beating of drums and a choir of
instruments-near-wind and super-string-that plangently repeated and repeated
the brief and unescapably haunting melody of the first Solidarity Hymn.
And then, in all but silence, in
all but darkness, there followed a gradual deturgescence, a diminuendo sliding
gradually, through quarter tones, down, down to a faintly whispered dominant
chord that lingered on (while the five-four rhythms still pulsed below) charging
the darkened seconds with an intense expectancy.
“Yes, I thought it was wonderful,” he lied and looked away; the sight of her
transfigured face was at once an accusation and an ironical reminder of his own
separateness.
The President switched off the music and, with the final note of the final stanza,
there was absolute silence-the silence of stretched expectancy, quivering and
creeping with a galvanic life.
Created on Wed Aug 31 17:38:08 EDT 2011
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