“I thought you didn’t write music anymore.”

Giancarlo gave a shrug.

“Well, I guess now I do again,” he mused. “I suppose it’s about time. I do have a concert coming up in the spring.” He paused, and tapped the pen against his nose, before breaking into a smile. “But first I owe someone back home some piano lessons.”

“Sounds like you’ll be busy,” said Carter.

“Oh yes,” replied Giancarlo. “And how about you? Are you planning now to settle down a little and start your career when you get back?”

“Actually,” said Carter, “I’ve been thinking that I might like to learn how to speak French when I get home.”

“French?” said a surprised Giancarlo.

“Sure,” said Carter. “How hard could it be? I mean, look how fast I picked up Italian.”

“But why?” asked Giancarlo.

“I don’t know,” said Carter evasively. “It’s just that I was thinking I might take a trip to France one day soon. You know, I’ve always been kind of interested in French culture.”

“Ah, I see,” said Giancarlo, putting the paper and pen aside.

He smiled at the young man, and settled back into the seat as the engines roared and the plane started its takeoff.

“So, tell me,” he said, closing his eyes. “What was her name?”