“Gaspard de la Nuit,” says James, clearing his throat. “Took me seven years to learn.” “Gaspard?” “It means something like ‘treasurer.’ Treasurer of the night.” “That was long.” “What?” “The suite.” “Oh, yeah. Seven minutes.” “So you learned a minute a year.” “Well, that was just the first movement. There are two more, all based on the fantaisies of this French poet named Aloysius Bertrand. Published in the early eighteen hundreds, I think.” He cracks his knuckles. “You’d love the poetry. Surreal as hell. Never succeeded in its time. Never succeeded at all, actually.
