’ ‘He does not call himself my father, for he calls himself nothing at all,’ Melusine told him, her tone violent with fury. She read the policeman’s rueful glance when she caught his refection in his rearview mirror. ’ ‘You’re going?’ asked his friend, and the note of relief was marked. And he, her lawful husband, dared not go to her and console her! Accursed—all of them— Enschede, Ruth, and himself. Gone were the old days where an old maid banged on an upright piano above a roaring crowd, this sound was loud enough to be heard outside the building, she thought to herself as her eardrums throbbed. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him.
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