“I didn’t mind the poverty, but now the money has come, and I don’t mind it either,” he said, seeming not uncomfortable in his smoking jacket, a cigar stuck between the fingers of his hand resting on the white tablecloth. 

“What about your music?” the interviewer asked. “Has your composing changed at all since you’ve started to receive recognition?” 

The composer exhaled a cloud of smoke and, veiled behind it, looked down as a lock of his perfectly combed hair fell over his forehead. His hand was shaking as he raised it to smooth the deserter back into uniformity. 

“Ah, yes, the music is going well. I have much more time now, so I can sit in my study undisturbed and work.”

“It has been almost two years now since your last symphony. Are you working on anything new currently?”

“Would you like a drink, my friend?” He raised his hand and signaled for the waiter.