The room itself had been laid out and decorated in a way that would make its inhabitants envious of Bob Cratchit. Twelve wooden tables were each topped by large green blotters that now more closely resembled the world’s most ambitious Rorschach test. Blank music manuscript and onionskin paper stood in stacks on the left side of each table. Overhead fluorescent lights bleached away any shadows that twelve goosenecked lamps might not eliminate.

There were seven men of various ages and one woman in her mid-forties, all at work on different projects.

A long counter intervened between this work area and the entrance to the office. Behind it, a man with a thin salt-and-pepper mustache was jabbing at an Underwood typewriter. He consulted some notes in a ledger to his left. “Yes, sir,” he said to me, not looking up from his work.

“I have a score I’d like extracted into parts for a rehearsal this Saturday. Can you give me an estimate?”

“An estimate takes time. Are you in the union?”

“Yes, I am.”

“See your card, please?”

I got out my wallet and handed him my A.F. of M. Local 802 card. He handed it back and resumed typing. I thought he was just finishing up something, but after a full minute I had the feeling if I didn’t speak up, we’d never converse again. “So?” I asked.

He rolled the paper out of the typewriter. “We try not to do out-of-town jobs.”

“But this is to be performed here, on Treasure Island.”

“But you’re from out of town. We’d need payment in advance, in full.”

“Fine, how much?”

He shrugged. “There’s really no way to tell until the work is done.”

At that moment, a very tall, elderly man walked in—early seventies perhaps, but far from frail. You don’t see a lot of very tall old men. His white beard and hair were stunning against his slightly sunburned face. He had a small satchel in his hand. I realized that I knew him.

“Professor Haffner?” I asked, and he nodded. “Sir, I was a student of yours at the Institute of Musical Arts in New York some twenty years ago.”

He peered at me.

“You were a student of mine?” he asked somewhat disbelievingly, though I don’t know why.

“Well, just first-year theory. But what an honor it was, Professor.”

Haffner looked at the mustached fellow behind the counter. “Attention, Gilbert. Across your threshold comes an honest man.” He turned back to me. “What year did you have the pleasure of studying with me, young man?”

I told him, and he reeled off a list of names I hadn’t thought of for quite some time. They were all classmates of mine; he had the right year. I was slightly stung that he didn’t mention my name. Aw, damn. I hadn’t made an impression on him.