“She loves you deeply,” he said. “At least she did when I saw her, and I have my doubts about that depth of feeling just vanishing.” He ate more pastry, picked almond slivers from his plate, and slipped them between his lips. “The body language—the mind language, was all there. I remember thinking, ‘This is the girl for Alex.’ ”

“I used to think so.”

“Cherish what you’ve got. My second wife was like that, accepted me with all my irregularities.”

“You think Robin accepts me, no matter what.”

“If she didn’t, she’d have left long ago.”

“But putting her through more of my risk-taking would be cruel.”

He squeezed my hand. “Life is like a bus stop, Alex. We map out our route but linger briefly between adventures. Only you can chart your itinerary—and hope God agrees with it. So what brings you to Ojai?”

“Enjoying the scenery.”

“Then come up to my house, let me show you my acquisitions.”

We finished our food and he insisted on paying. The old station wagon was parked out front, and I followed him into town and onto Signal Street, where we climbed past a drainage ditch paved with fieldstones and spanned by footbridges, up to the top of the road.

The front door to the purple house was open and shielded by a well-oxidized screen. Bert climbed the steps with agility and ushered me into the living room. The space was exactly as I remembered: small, dark, plank-floored, crammed with old furniture, shawls, throw pillows, an upright piano, the bay window lined with dusty bottles. But now there was no room to sit: A gigantic, hammered-bronze gong nudged the piano. Every couch and chair bore drums and bells and lyres and zithers and Pan pipes and harps and objects I couldn’t identify. The floor space behind the piano bench was taken up by a six-foot dragon-shaped contraption topped with corrugated wood. Harrison ran a stick along the ridges and set off a percussive but melodic scale.

“Bali,” he said. “I’ve learned ‘Old MacDonald’ on it.” Sigh. “One day, Mozart.”

He cleared instruments from a sagging sofa, and said, “Be comfortable.”

As I sat, something metallic behind the couch caught my eye. A folded-up wheelchair.

Bert said, “I’m storing it for a friend,” and settled his small frame on a hard-backed chair. The fingers of his right hand brushed against a pedal harp, but not hard enough to make a sound. “Despite your stress you look well.”

“As do you.”

“Knock wood.” He rapped the rim of the harp, and this time a note rang out. “G sharp . . . so you’re just passing through? Next time, call and we can have lunch. Unless, of course, you need solitude.”

“No, I’d love to get together.”

“Of course, we all need solitude,” he said. “The key is finding the right balance.”

“You live alone, Bert.”

“I have friends.”

“So do I.”

“Milo.”

“Milo and others.”