The cracking voice of his last hours alive singing sad notes that Sussmayr took down, 'Give them eternal rest - give me...' A frown - he hoped perhaps his music would survive
as Handel's had. It had to, for the sake of poor Constanze. He wished he had gone to London, that he'd been a better son. Closset came round, insisted that he take
hot wine, and slapped some ice around his head. He sang the Lacrimosa, just eight bars, he knew the rest. Notes flickering like stars up on the ceiling - and he fell back dead
and turned to music, music that can pray dance, lust, entwine - severe, intense and gay.