"We're all interested Simon," Dr. Gerhart interjects, "see if you can do it."
"Please play for us," Dr. Blake joins in--"you're really very talented."
"You hear that?" Deborah leans herself over Simon's back, and kisses the top of his head. "You have to try it. Please. You'll see just what I mean."
Simon turns his sight onto the keys. He lifts one of his hands and allows two fingers to glide along the row of notes. The sound that emanates is discordant and unintelligible. This goes on for a few seconds. A pearl of sweat appears on Simon's temple. Deborah simply watches with a faint smile, her arms wrapped around her herself in anticipation. A chord is struck--the notes seem to shimmer in agreement. Another lucid resonance follows, and another. Individual notes rise out of the fray. Simon begins playing with both hands, moving surely, eyes half-closed.
"Sounds like 'Fugue'. . . "whispers Gerhart, "by Bach."
Deborah stretches her arms around Simon's chest. Their heads touch, and they rock side to side with the music. Dr. Gerhart stands nearby with a video camera precariously supported on his shoulder. Blake observes quietly. Rigotto and myself jot down notes in a frenzy.
When it is over, Simon draws his hands back into his lap, clenching them into fists as they begin to twitch sporadically. The movement intensifies and turns into rigid convulsions. Simon's breathing becomes audible and irregular.
"Shhhh," Deborah maintains her embrace. She whispers in his ear, "That was lovely. Come back now. Come back."