Concerto to the Memory of An Angel (2011)
“Her malaise was getting worse by the day: nowhere did she feel at ease.
She looked all around her for some detail— a painting, an object, a piece of furniture—that might reassure her, restore her confidence, connect her to her past. In vain. The apartment on the top floor of the palace was depressingly tasteful: everything, from the tiniest molding to the fabric on the chairs, had been designed by one of the very best contemporary interior architects; if you so much as moved an armchair or threw a colored sweater over the combination of beige and lemony wood, it would destroy the harmony; any trace of a different, personal life, oblivious to the artist’s obsessions, would be blasphemous, a blatant obscenity. She felt like a perpetual stranger here, in this décor that was supposed to belong to her.
She did not want to turn on the lights, and she sat down on the sofa as if she were visiting.
It was a dreary day; only the gleaming silver boxes gave off any light.
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