The audience at the Wigmore Hall would politely applaud his performance, not too loud or too long, and then disperse to restaurants and supper parties across London.He put on his tailcoat over his white waistcoat and brushed the lapels out of habit rather than concern for his appearance. He was thinking about the conversations that would be held across those dinner tables; he did not imagine that many of them would touch for too long on the music, or his performance. He would play adequately, he was experienced enough to do that, but the need or the hunger – or even the ability – to achieve more had left him. There would be no fire or fury tonight; there had been none for a long while.Julius looked at his watch. It was almost time. He flexed his wrists and his fingers, and then picked up his violin. With a practised sweep he tucked it under his chin, closed his eyes and began to play.The music did not dispel the heaviness that afflicted his limbs as well as his spirit. There had been a time when it did, but now it seemed that he did not have even that resource left within him.He lowered his bow, and put the violin down again.
