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\"What's your number?\" Michelle asked Lucy. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. “I think she would,” she decided. She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. Spurlock (himself verging upon the hysterical) welcomed the diversion.
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