Imre had cut his finger and there was blood on the keys. Playing spread it quickly and, during a particularly frisky bit of Kurtág, the blood found its way over to me. Now I was participating in his hellish blood-spreading, and I hoped it wasn’t visible to the audience. Imre probably hoped so, too.
It was surprisingly tacky, all the blood, disgusting to drive your finger into, then disinclined to release you.
Imre will tell you that it was a terribly difficult concert for him, but it was much worse for me; what with another man’s blood on my hands.