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Moscheles at the piano, the man stopped—his progress, not his dancing. In fact, now that he stood in one place, he danced more wildly than ever, quavering, wriggling, virtually convulsing right there at the side of Moscheles, who rather than seeming to be disturbed by this peculiar interruption played all the more wildly and passionately himself, glancing over at the man when he wasn’t looking down at his fingers that moved so fast they appeared to be gloved.
    Robert found himself both angry at the man and envious of him. Moscheles was smiling at him. Moscheles was playing for him. Moscheles was inspiring him. And the man was unafraid to display his passion for the virtuosity that seemed to be turning his body into the very music itself.
    It was all Robert could do to sit there and not get up and dance himself.
    He might have done just that had “Alexander’s March” not reached its conclusion and Moscheles risen to bow first at the audience and then at the strange dancer, who, as the last note was echoing through the salon, seemed to quiver with it as it passed through him and then stood there completely still, turned sideways between Moscheles and the audience with his hands now resting modestly over his recently circumrotating private parts.
    â€œI’m cured,” whispered the young man, just loudly enough for Robert to hear.
    â€œWhat did he say?” asked Robert’s father, who had his arm around his shoulder.
    â€œHe’s cured,” Robert explained.
    â€œAs a shoulder of ham,” said Robert’s father, who was fond of wordplay.
    It turned out that the young man had chorea, otherwise known as St. Vitus’s dance. For all the good it had done him, he had been taking the waters when the sound of the music inspired him both to seizure and to dance, which in his case were the same. But perhaps inspiration had indeed proven cure. He now stood next to Moscheles wrapped in a towel that had been provided, thoughtfully, by some staff members of the spa who had been prepared to throw a net over him and had been deterred from this necessary maneuver only when his seizure had ended completely coincident with the completion of Moscheles’s playing.
    Robert was desperate to approach Moscheles, which his father had urged him to do and to tell him that he, too, was a pianist. Yet Robert was unsure of the etiquette. There were others hovering near Moscheles. But no one was close enough to him to speak except the young dancer, who was engaging the great pianist in a visibly passionate if one-sided discussion. All the others seemed to be waiting for him to finish before drawing closer.
    While the young man spoke directly into Moscheles’s ear, which required him to stand on tiptoe, Moscheles nodded not so much patiently as desperately. His kind eyes wandered along the decorative molding where the salon walls met its ceiling, until finally his gaze drifted slowly down through the room and landed right on Robert. There was no question about it! Herr Moscheles was looking at him! And in his look was entreaty.
    Robert went to him.
    â€œThank God,” whispered Moscheles.
    â€œWhat did you say?” asked the young man, who stepped down from Moscheles’s ear and looked at Robert as if to ask how dare he presume.
    â€œI was saying,” said Moscheles, “‘thank God you have been cured.’ And what brings you here?”
    â€œSt. Vitus’s dance,” said the young man. “As I was telling you.”
    â€œI was speaking to this young man.”
    Moscheles held out his hand to Robert. Robert looked at it as though it were made of glass.
    â€œDon’t worry,” said Moscheles. “If you break it, I know plenty of pieces for the left hand.”
    Robert slid his hand into Moscheles’s. He closed his eyes as he did so.
    â€œIt doesn’t really work that way—generally, one has to practice,” said Moscheles. Could he read minds