I’m floating disembodied around the final room of la Maison Satie. Whitewashed wood panels. Skylights, windows revealing light. The pristine grand piano, white, centerpiece, plays on, playerless. But Gymnopédies usurped, the invisible maestro entertains himself with a gushing, flawless rendition of Debussy’s Clair de Lune. On the pen-penultimate chord, a Cheshire Cat’s wink twinkles somewhere in the air above the keyboard. And is gone.