where he’s from. He tells her. She tells me he needs to come back for a ballgame. “Maybe,” I say. “That’d be great,” he says. “But this is sure something.” She says we look alike. It is a compliment. It begins and the crowd hushes and my father is there, watching as Netrebko, finely dressed in heavy red silks (sleeves virago, beadery baroque), holds out her hands and teaches our hearts the meaning of soprano. “That’s Anna Yuryevna Netrebko,” I whisper. “She-” He gently holds up a finger. When it’s done, he claps when we clap. He stands when we stand. “What did you think?” I ask. “It reminded me,” he says, “of that book you bought me.”
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