MEET ME ON THE BARRICADES

larly unsatisfying, this Slavic woman came to him in
his dreams, dark, exotic, carrying the breath of dan-
ger and -the odor of love. He called her Natasha.
And now she was in the room with him. He sensed
her presence, heard the rustling of her gown, in-
haled the heavy fragrance of her perfume. He kept

his eyes closed. He saw her better that way: slender, .

her braided hair coiled, worn like a coronet.

“Natasha !” ‘

“M on cher Pyotr! It has been so long.” Like most
well-bred Russians she Spangled her conversation
with French expressions.

“I’ve been so busy. We open our season next week.
Rehearsals. . . .”

He felt her fingers on the nape of his neck, caress-
ing him.

“You have forgotten?”

“N o, no, darling, never!”

“There are things to be done,” she said, admonish-
ing him. “The world is in flames and you still play
your oboe. This is no time for art.”

“Even for great art?”

“What will happen to art if the fascist hangman
comes into power? It will be consigned to the bon-
fire. Artists will languish ’.in prison, in concentration
camps. And then what is all your art worth?”

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