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10/03/2023
Genoveva
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Sunday
She enters the master's room, her aunt is sitting at the harpsichord playing Bach, the windows are wide open, the branches of the corkscrew willow almost reach in. There is tea, candles are lit, it is one of those Sundays. The cushions on the ottoman smell of almonds and incense. There is a glass bowl of cool pear compote on the table, the scent of cloves. The aunt wears dark silk that crackles softly and spreads her arms. She knows she must be embraced now. She turns and quickly goes into the hallway, there quiet twilight gathers. In the silver mirror round she meets a narrow, serious face. The bell rings and soon the room is filled with light and dark voices. Behind the curtain she observes legs, silk stockings and black pants. A violin sounds, soon they will call her.
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