Manfred hunkered down, the shots struck the wall plaster right above his head, the Russian was good. He laughed as he waited for the rest bars, now they had a cantus firmus, now they could add the counterpoint. Manfred aimed toward the sound and repeated the same basic rhythm, and the Russian replied with the same. Manfred no longer noticed the cold, he didn't notice the hunger, he was inside the melody now, inside a rhythm that filled the darkness and the ruins and made the light from the moon coalesce into rays. He took a step outside the ruins and added a counterpoint, repeated the basic rhythm and added a new counterpoint. The Russian let the echoes of the shots die out before he replied, a certain lightness had come over his shots, like playing a piano; he too repeated the basic rhythm before he added his counterpoint, playfully, tentatively.