For six years in all, these raw and desperate mea culpas came like the tide. And for six years, they were greeted with silence or fire. We burned more gifts than bodies in that decade, but they would not stop coming. And Lestat's relentless determination began to crack my considerable armor. Perhaps it was the modesty of the gesture... but in the spring of 1937, one broke through. He had written it himself in the music of the hour. His first composition in 100 years... Rashid, please play the song in question for Mr. Molloy and the doctor.
I'm not here.
[Come to Me plays in the background] He had engaged a local record company. And when the musicians they hired proved unsatisfactory, he played all the instruments himself.
Daniel Molloy: That's his voice?
Yeah. He pressed only one album. Had the master recordings destroyed. You're listening to an inferior re-recording now. The audacity of it all was matched only by its sincerity. He had made the near-perfect valentine... with one flaw. One perfectly premeditated flaw.
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