Monday, April 9, 2012
I hurry us deep into the belly of the church, away from the wind that tumbles in behind, toward Herr Palinski, who is still playing Bach like a four-armed man, like Berlin—both sides—is listening. Slowly Meryem eases in, lets me sit with her in a lonesome pew. She tilts her head and looks up, as if the music is coming from high in the church’s hollows, or from the tenacious stain of windows. Her ducky yellow boots flop sideways. Her back scoops my ribs.
— from the Berlin novel, for Tamra Tuller/Philomel