| Far off, at the perimeter of her
senses, the phone rings nine times. Hilda does not answer. Beethoven would
never contact her in such a fashion, yet her mind leaps forward. As if
the spirits of dead musicians allowed her to traverse time and space, Hilda
is suddenly in the kitchen, holding the Yellow Pages spread open to the
letter B. That's B for Beethoven. Peter Beethoven. |
| She grab the roots of her hair:
half terror and half salvation. |
| Hilda shivers while dressing. She rushes
to the listed address and pounds desperately on the door. Perhaps someone
who cared less would not have seen the family resemblance, but Hilda knows
instantly that his genes stand before her. His blood. Perhaps
a great-nephew, eight times descended, with the same wild black hair and
stocky frame. She notes the exact dimple on the right side of his chin
and the tiny facial scars. |
| Hilda drops to her knees. Peter Beethoven
looks sleepy and puzzled. She rubs her cheek against his trousers. |
| "Don't you recognize me?" Hilda
need no answer. Her words race on: "I've loved you enough. I've conjured
you repeatedly. Ludwig's progreny is mine." |
| Peter Beethoven eases Hilda out of the
entryway. Silently, he shuts the door. |
