fearing for his life, he writes worshipful symphonies, setting trumpets to joyous fanfare celebrating the great and amazing things that this government has done for its people. his wife sits by his side, playing out the melodic line mournfully on the piano, shifting major to minor, and now the tunes weep, trembling. he closes his eyes, shaking his head, and continues writing.
a hundred years on, his lies are in the open, in the living room, with his grandchildren all sitting around the coffee table, manuscript papers strewn over. no, i am sure he is lying. the youngest one declares authoritatively as he picks up a page, and points to a fragment. that, albeit the triumphant march of the brass, lies a mocking tune harrumphed by the horn. do you think he is mocking the government? asks the gentlest. the eldest shakes her head. i do not think so. i think he is genuine. he fears for his life, he writes music as dictated, but he tells us that those were not easy times.
let it be, says the smallest. his lies save him, even if he cannot be truthful, he lets the public hear what they want to hear.