I do not believe in miracles. A miracle would involve God throwing his dice. And God does not throw dice, or my name would not be Einstein.
Yet, of what else could I think but a miracle, when this happened?
After a good concert with compositions played from Bartok, Scelsi and Ruo – thus in good spirits – I drink a coffee with the friend of a friend who invited me. We are sitting in the café next to The Concertgebouw – Bodega Keyzer.
As you can see, after you have entered there is a small corridor with on one side the bar, on the other a row of little tables:
We are sitting at one of these tables, the one next to the entrance. The place is filled up, most of the people having listened to the concert next door. My friend sits with her back to the bar, my back is fixed to the heater under the large window. In between us the table, against which that part of my body leans – the part with a liver thrombosis and a few aneurysm’s in stomach and esophagus.
Just after I heard something like a gasp, a man falls backwards from one of the bar-stools, then against the chair of my friend, who in her turn bangs into our table, which cannot but bang into the bodily part mentioned.
A miracle, what else! A black one at that, as I fear the worst has happened. Then, again, I do not believe in miracles. God does not throw dice. He must be a billiards player, this perhaps being his cue:
He has delivered his master piece, much more difficult than the regular canon with three balls.
God played a canon with five balls – the man he toppled, my friend’s chair, my friend, our table and then my liver. A master player, however mean as the Devil himself.