When I’d been reclining on a studio bed in the sunny nest of Gail’s bedroom, with an entrancing girl at the keyboard making the notes dance, having the visual of her shoulders, arms, head, and flying mass of hair to delight my eye, Swing had struck me as a wild, impulsive, risky, rewarding new direction for those sounds we call music.

And I believe that were we all seated in Carnegie Hall, with the bounce of its reverberant walls adding a sense of drama and intrigue to each lonely line and sharp impact, amidst an audience of intelligentsia who’d been apprised in advance that this award-winning piece had already been pronounced “a breakthrough in modern music” by no less than Deems Taylor, with Benny Goodman and His Orchestra performing the work in confidently supple fashion, Swing would have been hailed the next morning as an impudent and innovative composition by a female visionary with whom the Arts would soon be forced to reckon.

However.

In the open air that diluted and dissipated sound to the outer walls of the feudal castle, being sight-read by musicians who played their instruments a bit stiffly and sometimes weakly and whose vibratos sounded a bit like Snow White singing at the wishing well, with a pianist who was having a hard enough time playing his own complex part without also attempting to conduct the piece, Swing suddenly sounded like a bunch of noise.

Professor Haffner would have been so pleased.

The Japanese-American girl who had introduced me to Fumio came out into the courtyard, along with Samurai Phil and some other young guides, to see Whatever Was The Matter. A few fled from the a fearful cacophony. The remaining hostesses in kimonos whispered and burst into giggles as if their Japanese sandals had been turned into saddle shoes.

Gail whirled in their direction, and they too quickly withdrew from the garden.

Fumio sat there rigid, his jaw clenched. I’m sure he was wondering what he would say when the piece was performed for the general consul and his wife the next afternoon.

The performance ended. Silence. Finally, Kat got up from the piano, looked our way for a moment, turned back to the band, and hesitantly said something to them in Japanese.

“What did he say?” asked Gail of the band boy.

“He asked if anyone had found any mistakes in their parts,” said Key Kaisa.

The first trumpet player raised a hand and spoke a few somber syllables.

“And what did he say?” asked Gail.

“He said, ‘How would we know?’ ” answered the boy gravely.

There was a beat of silence and then Shuki, my “beega-fahn,” coughed as his attempt to hide a laugh. This set off two other musicians, who were not as successful in covering up.