|
Xenia never wanted a party to end.
Once, in Seattle,
when the party we were at was folding,
she invited those who were
still awake, some of whom we’d
only met that evening, to
come over to our house.
Thus it was that about 3:00 A.M.
an Irish tenor was singing
loudly in our living room.
Morris Graves, who had a
suite down the hall, entered
ours without knocking, wearing
an old-fashioned nightshirt and
carrying an elaborately made wooden
birdcage, the bottom of which
had been removed. Making
straight for the tenor,
Graves placed the birdcage over his
head, said nothing,
and left the room.
The effect was that of snuffing out
a candle. Shortly,
Xenia and I were alone.
|