One night a few days later, Giancarlo had an argument with his father about his plans to go to America, and bitter words were exchanged.

“You are wasting your time,” Roberto had told his son. “What kind of living will you make out there by studying music? You will starve.”

“I’d rather die starving somewhere out there, doing what I love,” Giancarlo had replied in anger.“It’s better than suffocating to death here in this godforsaken place, where someday I’ll be thrown out into the street with nothing more than a pocket watch to my name.”

The remark wounded his father deeply; Giancarlo had seen it in his eyes. He regretted saying it, but he was too proud to take it back, and nothing more was said between the two.

The next morning, before his father and brother arose, Giorgio left early to spend the day in Pescara, where he was training to become a full-fledged technician. Roberto left the house a little while later with Demetrio, a villager who sometimes rode to work with him. For his part, Giancarlo stayed home at the piano, tinkering all morning with a new piece he had recently composed. He took just a short break for lunch and was soon back at work. It was nearing midafternoon when, as he was playing through the new piece, he heard a knock on the door. To his surprise it turned out to be Antonella. She was standing there holding one of Giorgio’s soccer jerseys that he had torn in a match. Antonella had mended it for him and had come to drop it off.

“I wanted him to have it for later on when he comes home,” she explained, “because he’ll be practicing with his team after work. I was going to just leave it at the door, because I’m going out for the afternoon, but then I heard your playing, so I decided to knock. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not,” said Giancarlo. “Please come in.”

Antonella entered, and Giancarlo closed the door behind her. An awkward moment of silence descended on them as she stood there, still clutching the jersey, while Giancarlo fidgeted with his hands.

“What was that song you were playing just a minute ago?” Antonella finally said. “It sounded very nice.”

“It’s something brand new I’ve been working on,” said Giancarlo, eagerly retreating to the sanctuary of his piano. “Would you like to hear the whole thing?”

“I would love to,” she answered.