The atmosphere folded itself against your face, came in between your fingers: Michael’s mountain was baking in the August sun. We were in the kitchen -- an enormous room, with a huge iron Ashley stove, a sofa, armchairs, statues. The cutting board shared counter space with an old RCA television and Michael’s “Wooden Nickel Odeon” which would rasp and buzz if handled with the proper care. Dust lay everywhere except for the piano, the table and the counter-top. The dust completed the room -- a fine room in winter, but now the heat carried the dust along with it and covered our arms, foreheads, our palms and fingers were sticky.
The morning sun got higher and Michael and Mark came in,