Читать книгу The President’s Room - Ricardo Romero - Страница 15

When the afternoon sky is very blue and I’m out on the terrace, I can hear music. It’s being played by someone, one or more people, on real instruments. I haven’t managed to work out where it comes from, which house, or who’s making it or listening to it. It drifts in when the breeze drops, mingling with the sounds of the city, which are fewer than you might think. It comes from far away. The city’s far away. It’s like the city’s always somewhere else. There’s always a moment when all you can hear is the music, trembling alone in the air, and that’s the exact moment before it disappears.