I was easily drawn into the passionate and disturbed mind of the storyteller, a renowned Brazilian conductor married to a young member of his symphony orchestra. He struggles with is envy of her youth and her passion for her Jewish heritage and culture. His jealousy and fear of losing her filled me with both compassion and frustration, however I had to continue reading until I reached the breathtaking conclusion.
The truth is that you can't think about peace when you marry a woman of thrity years younger. There's always a great deal of danger surrounding that type of relationship; any thirty-year-old man can be a threat, any trip to work, any girlfriend with ideas, any novelty, any change - everything brings risks with it, and there is also time, the great enemy. Waking up and seeing your face in the mirror, as wrinkled as the pillowcase, being constantly enchanted by the vitality of your mate, isn't a good thing. Especially when we act like one of those Shakespearean characters whose every third thought is about their tomb. It's like that with me. I think about the end every day, my end, the need of everything. Even when I get a massage I can't stop thinking that in fifty minutes that nice sensation, that feeling of well-being will be over. Some time ago, I stopped getting massages. My preoccupation with the end is so strong that I can barely relax.