Subito

Subito, from the Italian for quick, is a musical term for a rapid development or change in a composition. If I was a South Asian boy genius, and it came up in a spelling bee, I'd ask for it to be used in a sentence, and I might get something like this: 'The piece, much of is to be played pianissimo, includes a subito fortissimo at one point.' Last night, however, L. and I experienced an even more vivid illustration of the term.

It was about 9:30, and we were working on the Sunday Times crossword, with NPR's mellow (mellissimo, really, but that's not a word) Echoes on the radio. My small nip of bourbon had left only an amber shadow in its glass; our cat was curled up; Cleo slept. All quiet.

And then, suddenly, sounds of sirens, close, and closer, and a loud car crash on the avenue that lies just south of us. More sirens, and the chop of a helicopter, and suddenly the chopper's search light was clear outside. We both hurried to the window, and at that very moment saw a man vaulting the fence across the street, landing, and running across the street towards our house. And then he reached our gate, next to our front door, and was out of our line of sight.

Police arrived about two minutes later, and the chopper's light illuminated our whole lawn, as eerie shadows wheeled about. An ambulance pulled into the neighborhood. More police cars. As it became clear that our street was secure, the cops began to explore the woods that begin in our back yard, and then, realizing that our basement door was partly ajar, came inside, pulled their pistols, and lurched downstairs. No one there: all well. The cops, eminently polite, watched while we bolted the door, and then continued to search, with bloodhounds, until about 10:30. No luck, apparently, and we went to sleep much later, still slightly shaken and apprehensive.

Living in any city involves occasional crescendi and sforzandi: an angry driver; an ominous piece of news; a jackhammer. But this was something rarer, as it felt as though we were in the middle of the composition, with no obvious way out. We listen to music; we turn the volume dial; we may choose to change the station. Last night, though, the range of choices felt much, much more limited: things were loud, and intense, and that was that.

At least for two of us. As the police gradually took their dogs back to their trucks, we ventured into Cleo's room. She slept, rolled towards one side, untroubled and surrounded by fleece. And that image, more than anything, helped us return to calm. It took a while - the change was not subito, but rather more of a diminuendo - but eventually we all slept, one baby dreaming of who knows what and two parents shaken by the melody they'd just heard and hopeful that the next day's would be less stormy.