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charges on the bill. I have to sleep."
    Reluctantly, his mother slunk off to consume her solitary meal, while Paul hurried to his own room. To get there, he had to walk down a corridor overlaid with a thinning Persian runner, across a loggia draped with flowers, up a short staircase, through a foyer with a piano, down another short staircase, through the lobby and up the main stairs to the top floor. Here there was no carpeting at all. The corridor was as narrow as a vise. Still, he liked the room, which had a sleigh bed and writing table, and reminded him of the one Van Gogh had painted in Aries. The walls were patterned with fading violets. (Or was it a pattern of faded violets?) There was even a genuine architectural oddity: a window that started halfway down the wall and ended at the floor. When the weather improved, he thought he might sit in this window, dangling his feet amid the red tiled rooftops, in the river of the world.
    Having combed his hair and put on his jacket, he hurried back to the lobby. From behind the desk, the massive signora smiled at him without showing her teeth. Altogether she seemed upholstered: an upright, walking sofa.
    He requested, and was given, a telephone directory, as well as a copy of the day's newspaper, on the culture page of which a review of Kennington's concert featured prominently.
    Appropriating a little black phone in the corner booth, he started dialing all the five-star hotels, asking at each one for the room of Richard Kennington. "No, I'm sorry," the operators told him in their careful English, "No, there's no one here by that name," until finally, at the Bristol, the voice said, "One moment." Then there was a pause, another ring.
    "Hello?"
    Paul hung up. Returning to the front desk, he asked the signora how to find the Via Veneto.
    He didn't know exactly why he was going, or what he'd do once he got there: only that having missed the concert, he must not miss Kennington himself.
    The Bristol proved to be a very grand place indeed. The lobby had marble floors, porters, men in somber suits fussing behind inlaid wood counters.
    "I'm here to see Mr. Kennington," he told the concierge.
    "May I ask your name?"
    "Porterfield. Paul Porterfield."
    Looking slightly suspicious, the concierge picked up a telephone. "Mr. Kennington," he said in English. "There is a young man to see you. A Mr. Porterfield. Sorry? Yes? One moment."
    He handed Paul the phone.
    "Hello?"
    "Mr. Kennington—Richard—this is Paul Porterfield. Do you remember me?"
    "Who?"
    "I turned pages for you a few months back in San Francisco. The chamber music concert. You played the Tchaikovsky trio, the
Archduke,
then as an encore—"
    "Oh, yes. What are you doing in Rome?"
    "I'm here with my mother on vacation. And I saw the poster for your concert. I could kick myself! We only got in today." He lowered his voice. "I called all over the place looking for you. I'm amazed I found you. I wondered ... well, you may have forgotten, but after the concert in San Francisco you suggested we might ... we never had the chance then, but now—"
    Up in his room, Kennington, who had been in the midst of writing a letter to Mr. Mansourian explaining his intention to retire from live performance forever, brushed his hand through his hair. Sometimes at the least expected, most painful moment, the world presents you with an opportunity for relief.
    "Give me five minutes," he said. "Then come up. Room 611."
    He hung up the phone. Hurrying to his closet, he pulled on jeans, a white oxford broadcloth shirt. He brushed his teeth, splashed some Acqua di Parma on his neck.
    Exactly five minutes later, a knock sounded on the door. Kennington opened it.
    Yes, it was the same boy. He still had his hair parted perfectly.
    "Hello," Paul said.
    "Well," Kennington said.
    He held the door open, and Paul stepped through.

4
    "H ELP YOURSELF to something from the minibar," Kennington said, opening the little refrigerator under the