12 October 2026
As soon as we entered the concert hall in Zurich, I noticed how many people were speaking Russian or Ukrainian. Perhaps it was because Shostakovich was being performed that so many of them had come that evening. They sat together, listening to music. For a moment, it occurred to me how fundamental this simple activity was, and how easily one could overlook it.
The music began quietly, with a few tentative notes. The strings passed the melody from one to another, carrying it forward until their voices suddenly collided, breaking into sharp, almost violent bursts of sound. Then silence, followed by a few isolated notes, a melody emerging only to be interrupted again. Of great beauty. Without consolation. And yet uplifting.
Yves had already warned me before the concert that there was a chance he might fall asleep. After about thirty minutes, I noticed his head tilting slightly forward. It kept sinking a little further, until he jerked it upright again with a small, abrupt movement. My gaze drifted away from the back of his head and wandered across the hall. Everywhere, small groups of people sat listening intently to the music. An elderly woman had tears in her eyes. A man I had already noticed at the entrance, where he had surveyed the foyer with wide-open eyes and a strangely motionless expression, was now staring at the stage with the same frozen look on his face.
Two children were sitting in chairs far too large for them. While one imitated the movements of a conductor with his arms, the other rested his head against the back of his chair, looking down at the floor with a melancholy expression. Eventually, the movement came to an end. The entire audience immediately began to applaud. The child raised his head and looked at me. I turned around. Yves, having just woken from his sleep, sat up straight and joined in the applause.