O keyboard! How your lustrous chiclets bow before me, humble purveyors of the tale of orange and friendship. Didst thou ever imagine, in thine alphabetical glory, that the story would take a turn toward the darkness? And that you, o innocent and sleek instrument, would bear the brunt of transmitting by your svelte keys the arrival of an old and troubled mother, her luggage garishly stowed atop her head like a thieve’s toque? Nay, such things no doubt remained unimagined as you were assembled, bit by bit in the steaming factory, with dreams of marking words of peace and glory. Let us then not dwell upon the advent of a strange man looking knowingly the other way, for the strokes that brought his appearance to this very page surely burn your soul with sorrow.