He knew he had to be careful now in case his happiness 

  panicked her the way her hysteria had made him happy.  

  Several measures later, as he rode to Leningrad in 

  Rostropovich's car, they were discussing the color of a 

  certain violin tremolo in his Jewish cycle and he was 

  imagining what it would feel like if he could somehow 

  persuade Rostropovich's wife Galina, the imminent soprano,

  to meet him somewhere and play his throat like a 

  xylophone -- an inexcusable fantasy to be sure, which 

  harmed him and and rendered him deserving of punishment, 

  since Rostropovich was as loyal as a leech -- and then 

  Rostropovich offered him a shy question about Prokofieff 

  which he seemed to be pondering until Rostropovich, 

  glancing away from the snowy road, saw that he had in fact 

  retreated into the world beneath the black slabs and white 

  snow of the the piano keys.  Her photograph had become the 

  one place where he could be with her even if she wasn't 

  with him.  Her face, which had grown more sad and closed 

  since the days of the photograph (or perhaps it appeared 

  sad only when she was with him), he now knew better than 

  his own.