One day, when she came in, she heard the sound of the piano. The knocking
of loose hammers on dead wires, the light, hacking clang of chords
rolling like dead drum taps: Droom--Droom, Droom-era-room.
Alone in the dusk, Mamma was playing the Hungarian March, bowing and
swaying as she played.
When the door opened she started up, turning her back on the piano,
frightened, like a child caught in a play it is ashamed of. The piano
looked mournful and self-conscious.
Then suddenly, all by itself, it shot out a cry like an arrow, a pinging,
stinging, violently vibrating cry.
"I'm afraid," Mamma said, "something's happened to the piano."