there was rudolph , dead too , along with those pastel afternoons of shared solitudeher bladder ached badly now ; she had no idea how much longer she could hold it inthere was rudolph and his gaunt , sickly face anchored by eyes stolen from heavens treasure chest ... . his facethose eyesas she played him that song , the one deepest in her heart , the one she could not silence , not even nownow , when she could hear her own passion playing for an audience absolutely contemptuous of it .