Sheffield, Giancarlo well knew, was too much the diplomat to ever come right out and demand that he agree to play. Still, Giancarlo was fully aware that the dean had his own subtle ways of exerting pressure. Giancarlo had seen him in action more than once. It’s not that he considered him to be devious, but Sheffield was a consummate backroom politician. He had a way of pleasantly implying that a request accepted would be considered a tremendous favor, and rewarded as such sometime in the future. Left unsaid, but always understood, was the assurance that a request denied would most likely precipitate a contrary result. Such being the case, Giancarlo suspected that it was Sheffield calling once more to employ some new carrot or stick he had suddenly found at his disposal.

The telephone rang again.

Giancarlo ignored it, for there was no point in talking about it anymore. How, he wondered, could he ever explain to them all why he could no longer compose music or perform it at the piano? He himself was at a loss as to why it had happened. It was like asking a golfer to explain why he had lost his putting touch, or a gambler to explain why Lady Luck had suddenly chosen to abandon his side. The magic had left him, that’s all there was to it, and no amount of prodding, pleasant or otherwise, could bring it back. It was beyond anyone’s control.

The phone rang a third time.

Giancarlo sighed, and looked out the window. It was a lovely September day, warm and dry. As so often happens, the transition from summer to fall had brought with it the best weather of the year. Outdoors, students were strolling about in shorts and T-shirts, or lounging about on the grass, enjoying the sunshine. Giancarlo envied the carefree air they all seemed to exude, and he berated himself for not having had the sense to take his lunch outside when he’d had the chance and avoid his office altogether.

A fourth ring.Two more, and the call would be directed to his answering machine.