“What for?” he asked himself.

Another year passed. At the beginning of 1878, the publisher came to see him.

“It’s been two years,” he said, “since you’ve given us one of your lively tunes. Everyone is wondering if you have lost your talent. What have you been doing with yourself?”

“Nothing.”

“I know what a blow your wife’s death must have been, but it’s been two years now. I’m here to offer you a contract: twenty polkas over the next twelve months; the usual fee, and a higher percentage of the sales. And at the end of the year, we can renew it.”

Pestana nodded his agreement. He was giving very few lessons, had sold the house to pay off debts, and daily necessities were eating up what little remained. He accepted the contract.

“But I need the first polka straightaway,” explained the publisher. “It’s urgent. Did you hear that the Emperor has dismissed the Duke of Caxias? The liberals have been summoned to form a government; they’re going ahead with electoral reform. The polka will be called ‘Hurrah for Direct Elections!’ It’s not political, just a good title for the occasion.”

Pestana composed the first piece for the contract. Despite his lengthy silence, he had lost neither his originality nor his inspiration. It had the same touch of genius. The other polkas followed one by one at regular intervals. He had kept the portraits and their subjects’ repertoire, but he avoided spending all his nights at the piano, so as not to fall into new temptations. Now he would always ask for a free ticket whenever there was a good opera or recital on; he would sit in a corner and simply savor the sounds that would never again blossom in his own mind. From time to time, on returning home, his head filled with music, the unsung maestro in him would awaken once again; he would sit at the piano and aimlessly play a few notes, then, twenty or thirty minutes later, go to bed.

And so the years passed, until 1885. Pestana’s fame made him the undisputed master of the polka, but first place in such a village did not suffice for this Caesar, who would still have preferred not the second, but the hundredth place in Rome. He had the same mood swings regarding his compositions as before, the difference being that now they were less violent. No more wild enthusiasm during the first few hours, nor revulsion after the first week; just a degree of pleasure followed by a certain ennui.