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am."
    "I only mention it because I have aunts in Florida. In Hallandale."
    "That's the other end of the state from me. Holmbury is near the Georgia border."
    "I know where it is. I looked it up in the atlas. I'd like to go to Holmbury some day and pay my regards to Clara Aitken."
    "How do you know about Clara Aitken?"
    "Judging from what you said in that interview in the November 1986 issue of
Gramophone,
she must have been quite a teacher." He blushed.
    Kennington laughed. "It sounds like you know more about me than I know about myself."
    "What can I say? You're a role model to me, sir—I mean, Mr. Kennington."
    "Richard."
    "Richard." Paul grimaced, blushed.
    "There, that wasn't so bad, was it? And anyway, wouldn't you agree that it's much more pleasant to be called by your own name?"
    Paul seemed to consider the question seriously. Then he said, "Well, I'd better be going. Good luck with the rest of your tour. And thank you. Again."
    "Thank
you,
Paul," Kennington answered; yet he did not take the hand Paul held out. Instead he stepped closer. "In a way, I'm sorry you have to go."
    "Why?"
    "Well, I was thinking we could have a drink together, or..."
    Paul's eyes widened. "A drink? But people must be taking you out!"
    "No, no one's taking me out."
    "But I came with my mother, and I haven't got a ride home. I couldn't—"
    "That's fine."
    "Not that I don't want to. Of course I want to ... only how would I—"
    "Paul!"
    "Well, you could take a taxi. I'd be glad to—"
    He turned. His mother was striding toward them, flanked by the Mosses.
    Instantly Kennington drew back, drew away.
    "Darling, I'm so proud of you!" Pamela said, filling the air with her scent of cola and perfume. "You were wonderful!"
    "Mom, please—"
    He looked over her head for Kennington. From where he'd stood Diane Moss pulled a camera from her purse.
    "Say cheese!"
    "Cheese!" Pamela said.
    A flash went off. For a moment its reddening waves blinded Paul, who blinked, signaled with his arm. "Wait!" he almost called. But the darkness had picked up Kennington, and carried him away.
    He still held the music. What was he supposed to do with the music?
    "Honey, are you all right?" his mother asked.
    "Fine," he said. "Excuse me, will you?" And he went off to ask the stage manager where to leave the scores.

2
    M ISS OLGA NOVOTNA (née Higginbotham), eighty-six years old with flame red hair, liked to claim she'd been responsible for Kennington's career. "This was almost twenty-five years ago," she told Paul as they drank tea in her apartment on Russian Hill. "I'd been asked to serve on the jury of the Chopin, and Kennington was one of the competitors. He couldn't have been much older than you are now. And when he performed—well, I was overwhelmed. It was as if Chopin had been waiting for this young man to be born. So you can imagine my astonishment when a few hours later, still aglow from his performance, I found that he had failed to make the semifinals." She raised a jeweled hand to her neck. "My back went up, Paul. I tell you, my back went up."
    "What did you do?"
    "I said to my fellow jurors, if you eliminate Richard Kennington, you eliminate me. I resign from this jury."
    "And you walked out?"
    "I never judged the Chopin again. Of course they laughed at me. Oh, they regretted it later, when he got the contract, and was famous overnight. Vindication is sweet, my dear! Never forget it."
    "Who won that year?"
    Miss Novotna shrugged. "Who remembers? No one that matters. Take it as a lesson, Paul. Mediocrity rewards its own, but talent will always out. Now play
Bydlo,
and remember, hard at first, then soar, as if the cart is rising into the heavens."
    Paul played. In his mind he was Kennington—the young Kennington, from his first album cover—losing the Chopin. For weeks now, ever since his page-turning debut, he'd been trying to learn as much about Kennington (Richard!) as he could. Unfortunately information proved scarce. All he knew