The harpist is a barren woman, fat and grey, and widely gossiped about. She sits on a swivel chair in the canteen, starting with a salad. They say she is always on diet. After she has wiped the dressing from her face, she tells me she is not satisfied. How can she play if she is hungry?

She returns with butternut soup and asks what I'm doing this week. I tell her I'm tweaking my reeds for the contrabassoon. The weather is changing, the rainy season has started. One day my reeds speak; the next they don't.

It is a long story, making contrabassoon reeds. She nods. I'm trying a new scrape on the tip. I want a sound that blends more politely. When she returns with a portion of roast chicken, she wants to know about my reed-making tools. By the time I am finished explaining the difference between a reamer and a mandrel, she is banging her fork on the plate. There are teardrops in her eyes.

While I draw a diagram on a napkin of how I wrap the binding, she fetches a portion of lemon meringue pie. Next she wants to know why my instrument always sounds like flatulence.

I return to the napkin, point to the diagram of the scrape, meaning to explain about the tips. I watch her eat, saying by accident, the challenge is to balance the lips.