They placed the speaker beneath our window because the cable could reach an outlet there. I did not object as tables arrived or children chalked the path. I liked courtyard celebrations; I had simply returned from a night shift that Saturday and needed a few hours' sleep. My husband went down to help with the grill. I said I would join later if I managed to rest. He kissed my forehead and closed the door more quietly than usual.

Music began just after noon. I felt it through the pillow, even with the window closed. I went downstairs wearing the loose shirt in which I had tried to sleep. I approached the organizer from the side to avoid interrupting a speech. I asked him to turn the speaker slightly or lower it while I rested. He said celebrations did not happen daily. I replied that celebrating was not the problem; the sound shaking my room was.

Instead of answering, he raised the microphone. He announced that one neighbor disliked other people's happiness. Several people laughed before seeing my face. My husband was among them. His laughter was brief, but long enough to recognize. The organizer continued that some people woke up old. I stood beside a box of plastic cups, suddenly made into entertainment I had not come to provide.

I did not take the microphone. In the same voice I began with, I told the organizer he had no permission to make a joke of my request. Then I turned to my husband and asked for the car keys. I intended visiting my sister. He put down the tongs, approached, and said I need not flee my own apartment. I replied that this was precisely what I was doing while people for whom he grilled meat enjoyed my departure.

My husband looked toward the speaker and asked another neighbor to help move it. The organizer objected that they would spoil the arrangement. The two men nevertheless turned it toward a blank wall and lowered the volume. Nobody asked for the celebration to end. I went upstairs, still angry, but the sound was now bearable. Later my husband brought food and apologized for laughing. He did not claim he had laughed at something else.

I did not return to the celebration that day. Toward evening I woke and ate cold meat by the open window. I heard conversation, laughter, and somebody singing uncertainly without a microphone. That was the neighborhood sound I loved. I told my husband to help next time before I became a joke. He nodded. Downstairs the celebration continued quite successfully, although one woman no longer had to pretend she was fine.