When I think of Bach, I recall powdered wigs, a dim, gilded hall, limelight burning on a stage, rouged cheeks, finely turned men’s calves in stockings. I am in the audience, I am in a box seat, I am holding a fan, but really, I am nowhere at all. I could be a rat for that matter, darting under seats, crouching on a ledge, unseen, unnoticed. This evening we will attend a concert of the cellist we have listened to all our lives. I think we will have a fine view of his shoes. It was the hall-boy who would have to polish all the servants’ boots – a mix of sweet oil, treacle, vinegar, and lamp black, applied with his hand, and rubbed to exhaustion. There were passageways built within the great houses so servants could shadow their masters, appearing at will when summoned by a bell. If you should chance to be seen, flatten yourself against the wall and pretend you do not exist. Tonight we might meet the man to whom I was once bound. The harmonies will be sweet, the music sublime, and the crowd attentive and admiring. Think of it as restitution. Even rats have ears.