i want debussy
Claire and I spruced ourselves up a bit, and this week’s piano recital was much less formal than last week’s – one of the students was in fact punk rock – so sartorially speaking we all met somewhere in the middle. The music was gorgeous, lots of Chopin and Beethoven and Brahms and hey! Music-knowing people of my acquaintance! Why the hell hadn’t you told me about Debussy? Well, you probably had and I didn’t pay any attention. A boy called Harrison played Debussy’s Clair de Lune, all swoony and divine, and young Miss Claire, who was worn out from the day’s shenanigans, fell asleep in my arms.
I looked into her sweaty damp face and marvelled at how dear and brilliant she is, and how very much she and her sister are the sun and anchor of my life. After the concert I carried her back to Mission Street where a greatly escalated police presence and a sizable party of Code Pink protesters marked the spot, at Foreign Cinema, where Hillary Clinton was having dinner. I thought, Good for you, lady! Have the steak, it’s excellent. Then we caught the bus home to Julia and Jeremy. Our three-week-old tradition of Sunday night roast is starting to catch on.
