The outcry was loud against it, against the halving of the space horizontally, the building of the mezzanine: a place for musak, international soundtrack for those who hate music, who really believe they are dancing in the dark and shining on like crazy diamonds. The stairs are still settling or perhaps already loosening, each tread creaking with its own voice. And in time you could learn this, this sequence and then climb quietly, or qickly taking three at a time in a wooden opus, a concerto for stairs.