But Mr. Mooney is something else. Hungry for membership in our ranks, he insists loudly on buying everyone a second round, and a third. Robert is his first name, Robert Mooney. He speaks illiterate French and appalling English. Reaching into his back pocket for his wallet, a thick hand gripping thick leather, he’s cramped by shadows, blurred of feature, older than the rest of us, older by far, maybe even in his fifties, one of those small, compact, sweet-eyed, supple-voiced men you used to see floating around certain quarters of Montreal, ducking behind tabloids or grabbing short ryes or making endless quick phone calls from public booths.

Here in Le Piston, after our recorder lesson, he drops a handful of coins on the table and some bills, each one a transparent, childish offer of himself. My round, he says, without a shred of logic. He has stubby blackened fingers and alien appetites, also built-up shoes to give himself height, brutal hair oil, gold slashes in his back teeth. We drink his beer down fast, without pleasure, ashamed. He watches us, beaming.

All he wants is a portion of our love, and this we refuse. Our reasons are discreditable. His generosity. His age. His burnished leather coat, the way it fits snugly across his round rump. His hair oil and puttied jowls. Stubble, pores, a short thick neck, history. The way the beer foam nudges up against his dark lip. Any minute he’s likely to roister or weep or tell a joke about a Jew and a Chinaman or order a plate of frites. The joke, if he tells it, we’ll absorb without blinking; the frites we’ll consume down to the last crystal of salt. Dispassionate acts performed out of our need to absolve him. To absolve ourselves.

Robert Mooney is a spoiler, a pernicious interloper who doesn’t even show up until the third Wednesday when we’ve already done two short Mozart pieces and are starting in on Haydn, but there he is in the doorway, his arms crossed over his boxer’s chest. A shuffling awkward silence, then mumbled introductions, and bad grace all around except for Madam Bessant who doesn’t even notice. Doesn’t even notice. Our seven stretches to eight. An extra chair is found, clatteringly unfolded and squashed between yours and Pierre’s. (Pierre of the cowboy boots and gold earring, as though you need reminding.) Into this chair Mr. Mooney collapses, huffing hard and scrambling with his thick fingers to find his place in the book Madam Bessant kindly lends him until he has an opportunity to buy one of his own.