“You’re still tired,” said my mother.

“Jet lag,” I said.

“Take a nap,” she said. “You still have time.”

“I don’t have time,” I said, “and naps always leave me feeling bleary. You know that I never nap before a concert.” We were both silent for a moment while the line crackled. “Weren’t you supposed to be at the doctor’s all day?” I asked.

“I’m between appointments. The man who checks my blood is finished with me, and I have half an hour until they do the scans. Your father has somehow managed to get me a private phone so I can call you while he runs out for sandwiches, which I have already told him I won’t eat. You’d think, since they keep telling me to eat more, that they’d have scheduled in enough time to go and get lunch.”

“I wouldn’t think so. I wouldn’t think they’d think about it. Remember, I’ve been there and met them.” It was a bad connection with an echo. “You sound tired. I know you’re afraid,” I said, “but I think the process today is pretty routine.”

My mother laughed. “Breaking rocks in the noonday sun is routine for chain gangs,” she said. “I didn’t sleep well last night. Partly because I knew I had to come here today. I hate this place.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“And then I had your dream,” my mother said.

“You had what?” I asked.

“I had your dream,” she said. “I had gone to one of your concerts, and I had seats in the middle of the hall. You were playing the Schubert, really beautifully. I love that piece. And then you began to get lost, in that low rumbly passage. And I knew what the notes were that you needed, and I kept trying to call up to you, but you couldn’t hear me, and you kept playing that passage over and over again. You had the most terrible look on your face, a sort of lost, frightened look, a little boy look. And I felt so sad, so overwhelmingly sad, and all I could do was watch you.”

“I hope it doesn’t happen that way tonight,” I said.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” said my mother. “It’ll be fine.”

“I’m not in good form,” I said.

“No,” said my mother. “You sound grumpy. Think of it this way, Harry. At eleven o’clock tonight, one way or the other, it’ll be over. It’s not going to be a complete disaster with that music and that audience. If it’s not the best concert you’ve ever played, then it’s not the best concert you’ve ever played, and after eleven o’clock you don’t ever have to think about it again. You don’t really want to be thought of as a Mozartian anyway.”

• • •

That night, Bernard drove me to the concert hall, and then he came backstage and sat with me while I ran over some scales and tried to get the tempo for the divertimento. He retied my tie—he always retied my bow ties—and then we waited together until we heard the crowd being let in.