Excerpt:

"Mikhail, zvenitye kolokol," she said as he reached the threshold. "Someone must come put Troyan dans le chenil."

In Offenbach's odd little Tales of Hoffman, a mechanical doll sang about the birds dans la charmille, and a strain of that aria wound its way into the back of Mikhail's thoughts, hooking his ear and overpowering the tinny waltz whispering out of the record player. It would be fitting to call one of the girls Olympia, flesh and blood though they were. He pressed down the button near the door that would alert the domestics to his grandmother's needs and considered the feasibility of programming a soprano and an alto as fronts into the same subject. One who hit high notes, one who hit low notes; the same personality, with minute differences that only he would notice. It would be frivolous waste of time, of course. If he needed a singer, one with the entire range would make more sense. His flight of fancy would never get official approval. But Bhavani had Vishnu and Shiva for her own personal enjoyment. Fabricated devas. Why not divas?