And even when he walks, a lock of his black hair falls onto his forehead, sweat beads run down his brow, a streak on his neck, his collar is wrinkled...

And above and below, the violinist's bow strokes and the clarinetist there, persistent, and then the ballad and then Alekis, turning and making gestures and tapping the edge of his black shoe and then again, and another gesture. Humble, without bravado or excessive movements, calm...