Pag

I didn't know his name yet nor that his eyes

were bulging like that nor that their whites both matched

the white of his handkerchief and the white of his collar,

soft and loose over the double cravat;

nor that there was a purpose to the whites

nor that the knuckles were white as well and that

the strings had popped and he would play on one string

all over Europe and he would be a clown-

at least from time to time-and it was a mas-

querade and it was theatre, he was a type of the

flagrant artist and he would stand for me as

a cipher and the broken violin would

stand as a model for, say, one of my manuscripts

written on shiny butcher paper and I would

do the snapped off strings by telling jokes

and talk in accents-and voices-some kind of standup

comedian-I detest the phrase- nobody but

me can say it-for I have a broken string

and I have a handkerchief in my left hand I use to

wipe my neck and pat my cheek and it is

reduced to a wet ball, from pity and anger.