I said that I had been practicing constantly. “It’s not going to be a very difficult concert. It’s all music I’ve played before. And it should be an easy audience. Tolerant subscription people and Mozart lovers.”

“You sound tired,” said my mother.

I was not aware of sounding tired. I was, in fact, not aware of being tired until she mentioned it. “I had a strange dream last night,” I said. I had forgotten it until that moment. “I was playing the Schubert at a very big concert in some kind of great arena, a sort of amphitheater. I was playing it perfectly, better than I’d ever played it before, and then suddenly, in the middle of the Andante, I realized that I couldn’t remember which movement came next. And so I kept playing one phrase over and over again, hoping I would remember, so I could go on, but I couldn’t remember. I woke up in a cold sweat.”

“So you’re not feeling at all anxious about the concert tomorrow,” my mother said in a tone of light irony.

“No, I don’t think it was about that. I’m not playing the Schubert tomorrow anyway,” I said. “Funny, I’d forgotten it until this moment. I must have fallen asleep again a little while afterward.”

“Do yourself a favor and go to bed early tonight,” said my mother. “Don’t keep getting out of bed to play little odds and ends over to make sure you have them right. Just go to sleep and stay asleep if you can.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said. “I don’t usually get up in the middle of the night here because the piano wakes Bernard up. But with jet lag and everything . . .”

“If you decide to stay asleep, you’ll stay asleep,” my mother said. “I’m spending the day at the hospital tomorrow, preparing for my first chemotherapy, so I don’t know whether we’ll be able to speak. If we don’t, have a good concert. Call and let me know how it goes.”

“You let me know how it goes at the hospital,” I said. “It can’t be as bad as you think it’s going to be.”

• • •

That night, I slept fitfully. Easy audience or not, Mozart or otherwise, I was nervous. It had been only six weeks since my last concert, but I felt as though I’d been on sabbatical forever. My fingers seemed tight and atrophied. I had included a divertimento that I didn’t like very much, because I had thought it would balance the other pieces, and I didn’t feel like playing it. Bernard said I should announce a change to the program, but that seemed theatrical to me. I kept working on the divertimento. I knew I was playing it too fast, but I couldn’t seem to get it back under control. By the end of the afternoon, I was in a foul mood, and when the phone rang, I was tempted not to answer it.