I never tired of hearing the story, though he told it always in the same manner, with the same words, the same intonation, like a script memorized and perfected over many performances. It was romantic and bizarre, the kind of story that old people are likely to tell when they have locked onto a solitary moment in their life, allowing that moment to seize and command them. Still, there was always something compelling about it. Over time, I began to believe that Avrum repeated it because he wanted me with him when he made his leap back to that night. I think he wanted me to understand something that he believed essential for the good feeling of happiness, or contentment. In everyone’s life, he instructed, there was one moment of change—one grand, undeniable moment of change—that was so indisputable and consequential it never stopped mattering.

And with Avrum, that moment was the night he heard Amelita Galli-Curci sing at the Lexington Opera House, and the voice of the music spoke to him.

Until he died on July 12, 1993, at the age of one hundred and six, Avrum Feldman devoted his life to the celebration of that moment. It was a life of innocent fantasy and sweetly endured anguish.

It was, as Avrum often confessed, a life wholly wonderful, but not quite complete. “It is very painful,” he would warn me, “to love someone and believe you can never be with them.”

He would add, with a sad smile, “I chose the right person, but I am the wrong man.”

The caller was Sol Walkman, administrator of the High-mount Home for Retired Citizens, where Avrum had lived for thirty years. I knew Sol’s voice immediately—a thin, almost impersonal voice. Though I had met him a few times during my visits with Avrum and he had tried to be pleasant, I had never really liked him, because I have never understood why people who have no apparent compassion choose to work in a profession that begs for it.

Sol told me that Avrum had died at some hour between midnight and dawn.

He said, “According to Mr. Feldman’s records, you were to be notified of his death. There’s nothing to indicate it, but I must ask: Are you his son?”

“No,” I answered. “Just a friend. He had no children, or any other relatives that I’m aware of.”

“I see.”

“I can be there tomorrow morning,” I suggested.

“He was very specific about his wishes. He wanted to be taken immediately to the crematory. It’s very clear in his instructions, very clear. I’ve just finished reviewing them.”

“Then take him,” I said.

There was a pause. “You don’t wish for us to wait until you arrive? Is that what I understand? I spoke to the funeral director. He—”

I interrupted. “It’s all right. Do as he wished.”