Memory 549 :: Debussy

He dreamed that he saw Debussy play the piano in a store. I had never heard him say Debussy, although when we lived in Amsterdam he used to get up early on Sunday morning, make coffee and listen to a classical music program. He wasn't the kind of person that analyses dreams. He accepted them as stories, in which everything represented itself. At least, that's what I thought.

Unaware of the obvious, he often seemed to be caught up in a world that was entirely his, forgetting simple tasks and numbers. The world is not as fragmented as you think. He never answered my questions directly. Even in his poetry I never found anything that made me understand.

I often wondered if he saw me. People said he was magnetic. The streets were empty and you could hear the faint notes behind the glass. I don't remember when I stopped asking him questions, though it must have been just before he stopped telling me stories.