the lady asked. “Moderato cantabile,” said the child. The lady punctuated his reply by striking the keyboard with a pencil. The child remained motionless, his head turned towards his score. “And what does moderato cantabile mean?” “I don’t know.” A woman, seated ten feet away, gave a sigh. “Are you quite sure you don’t know what moderato cantabile means?” the lady repeated. The child did not reply. The lady stifled an exasperated groan, and again struck the keyboard with her pencil. The child remained unblinking. The lady turned. “Madame Desbaresdes, you have a very stubborn little boy.” Anne Desbaresdes sighed again. “You don’t have to tell me,” she said. The child, motionless, his eyes lowered, was the only one to remember that dusk had just exploded. It made him shiver. “I told you the last time, I told you the time before that, I’ve told you a hundred times, are you sure you don’t know what it means?” The child decided not to answer. The lady looked again at the object before her, her rage mounting.
