The Great Concert of the Night

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Five minutes past midnight: a call from my sister. It’s not right that I should be on my own, she tells me. Nobody should be alone at New Year. She sends a picture of herself and Nicholas, glasses raised to the phone; in the background, some people I don’t recognise. They’ve had a really nice evening; Nicholas excelled himself in the kitchen, and there’s been enough champagne to float a dinghy. ‘Even you would have enjoyed yourself,’ she says. I report that I too have had a nice evening. ‘Doing what?’ Emma demands. A film, a book, a drink. ‘Sounds great,’ she says. ‘Next year, you’re coming to us. No excuses accepted.’

I watched Le Grand Concert de la Nuit. Entranced again by Agamédé; entranced again by Imogen. The film transmits a presence that both consoles and torments.

Looking up from the book, I gaze at the chair in the corner of the room, the chair in which Imogen used to read; the lamp beside it is unlit. Gazing into the shadow, I make something like an after-image arise: turned to the side, with her legs curled up, she props the book on the arm of the chair, angled into the light. The presence is weaker than that of Agamédé. Often, when delighted or surprised by something she had read, she would read it aloud. One evening, I remember, she came upon the story of Blaise Pascal’s escape from death. ‘Listen to this,’ she said. I can hear her intonation, the rise of her voice.

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