The boy’s clubs are open to all who care to go. In the corner of one sits our old boxmaker and clandestine artist, Fishface or Fuckface, as you wish. It seemed extraordinary to him that he had in fact escaped. Each moment in this extraordinary city enthralled him. A feeling made more so as his memory now detached itself from the routine to which it was used. Somehow the circumstances of his years of clandestinely painting and drawing faded as unrelated to the substance, namely the vision, he had created in his pictures. A vision that now continues in the scene around him. Developed rather, for surely he could not have created in such detail as he now saw around him. Was indeed beyond him. His eye swam through the details of this club visible from his corner. It was one of the flute clubs. The Ice Flute they called it, after the flute of ice that was its symbol. By the entrance set in the wall in a refrigerated display case a flute made of ice. The name of course had appealed to his northern temperament. A refined sense of melancholy permeated the bare room. Groups of boys, a few men, sat around on plain chairs at plain tables. In the context of this extraordinary district with its seemingly endless variety, such bareness seemed, for want of a better word, spiritual. As in many of the clubs the main activity practiced is conversation. The custom being to begin with the symbol of the ice flute and from there develop lines of thought around the theme of its musics inaccessibility. His pupil brought the boy over, they sat down. Shy boy as many were in this club and my pupil, sweet thing, has doubtless seen some interest in me. The nervousness of the boy’s smile cannot cover the searching look in his eyes. He begins the conversation. The ice flute melts in our hands and by our breath if we chance to play it. Perhaps one note of two perhaps a few but never many. I personally have not tried to play it. It has been shown many times in the past when this club was first conceived the the obvious fact is true. The flute melts. Yet you saw it when you came in. The flute is the symbol and yet it is the mould in which we freeze it that we must preserve and beyond that the idea of the mould. The essence though of this club is not the idea of the ice flute but the sight of the ice flute itself behind the glass. The glass is the basis, it allows us to actually see this unplayable flute rather than imagine it. Tell me, why is it in the entrance then? the old man interrupted. If the sight of the flute is so important why would not the Direction place it in the centre of this room? We do not wish to be dominated by our symbol. One looks on entering, that is sufficient. The ice flute, you see, is our introduction to each other. Frozen breath spitting on the instruments sounding edge. Shattering of ice. Fragment frozen breath among ice flute shards in this glass display case I passed on wandering out. Come Angelo.