I looked out the window to see the total darkness of night. There were voices and music from the rooms below, the distant clinking of glasses. A light bleeding came from my nose, or from my mouth. I walked to the doorway. Things were happening downstairs. There were parlors and anterooms, vestibules. There was no official reception area because there were many entrances. From upstairs, the grand staircase was difficult to descend, especially in the dark. It would take some time. The house was dark despite its many occupants. There was an absence of electricity. Everyone was beginning to be enamored of the darkness, and they called it atmospheric. They celebrated the darkness, and they called it new though it was not new. My eyes could not adjust. The descent took time.

I saw Philip. I said, I am sorry I am late, I am lightly bleeding. He didn’t like to see it, he said. He said, it will go away, let’s have a good night. Everyone is in the salon. The living room? I said. No, he said, the big room with the grand piano and the harpsichord. Can you play? he asked me. The harpsichord? I said. There’s a harp in there too, he said, you can’t see a thing but there’s just this constant music. Everyone is playing something different, a terrible din, and then out of the blue they’re all playing the same piece. There’s no percussion, Philip said, just strings and keys and wind—it’s rather dramatic, mysterious. Everything is mysterious in the night, I said.

“The night is full of strings,” Philip says. “Then it is full of keys—though the grand piano and the harpsichord together seem a bit much. Listen,” Philip says.

I listen.

“Do you hear that,” Philip says. “Now there’s an organ. It’s a bit baroque, but I think it’s a fantastic attitude to have, if you’re going to have an attitude. The hearts of the musicians are jellied and sugarcoated, gold-leafed.”

“Philip,” I say. “The stairs were nearly impossible.”

“You’re dressed in an old style,” Philip says.

“It’s a slip,” I say. “There’s some minor blood drops on the stairs.”

“There are people to clean that up. Stop harping on it,” Philip tells me.

“The music is constant,” I say. “Is anyone awaiting my arrival?”

“No,” Philip says. “Everyone’s drunk and thinking of themselves. Do you want a drink? It’ll help the bleeding.”

Philip puts a Scotch into my hands.

“It’s a fantastic drink,” Philip says. “If you’re going to drink.”

“I need some fresh air,” I say.

“I’m going to smoke,” Philip says.

I follow Philip outside. Outside, enclosed within a patio, it is the night.