June 16
The rose is without why; it blooms because it blooms, / It pays itself no heed, asks not whether it is seen.
The Cherubinic Wanderer
The Next Note
The rose is without why; it blooms because it blooms, / It pays itself no heed, asks not whether it is seen.
Mestre Romão could make an orchestra shine. A melody of his own was the one thing he could never manage. Since his wedding he had kept the beginning of a song; his wife had long since died. The notes ended on an A.
When he fell seriously ill, he had the harpsichord moved into the back room and tried once more. Through the window he could see a newly married couple in the house next door. He played the beginning, searched for the next note, started over. In the end he tore up the sheet.
At that moment the young woman at the other window began, lost in thought, to sing softly to herself. After an A came exactly the phrase he had sought for years. Romão listened and shook his head sadly.
