“Ah, Madame Gina!” I cried. “She is superb, isn’t she? And did you hear Monsieur de Menasce? He duets with Madame Gina sometimes. Some might say they prefer to listen to Madame Gina on her own, but, after all, it is his house. Or palace, really. Did you get a peek at the tapestries? And oh, heavens, the teas afterward! Célia and I look at the mille-feuilles and sit on our hands. A contest between greed and vanity, you see. Do you play the piano?”

“I used to be quite good. But the more I practice, the worse I get.”

“Oh, that can’t be true.”

“It is. I’m going to have to stop before I lose my gifts entirely.”

“James, how ridiculous!”

I burst into giggles. I was so relieved to be amused by him. Perhaps the evening might go well after all.

—

The recital room, part of a very ancient, very musical institute, was on the first floor up a winding marble staircase, the grand piano so burnished and glowing that the cabinet looked almost red in the low lighting. I sat down between Célia and James. While we waited for the performance to begin I stole surreptitious glances at him. He gazed quietly ahead, his face serious, contained: I could imagine him studying. The books would be thick, leather-bound. He was black-haired where Peter was fair. His eyes were blue like Peter’s but I had already noticed how dark they were, a different, Delft blue, beneath black brows.

Just then a hush descended. Edouard sat down at the piano and launched into the recital.

Debussy, then Chopin—what a romantic effusion this was, perfect for Célia’s last night. Next, without an interval, came Khachaturian’s Poeme. Swiftly Edouard conjured up the moonlight on the water, smashed it to bits with a hard flood of major chords, brought it back again in little glims of white that floated on the ripples of a deep, dark lake. (I can’t help it. I adore that piece.) It was toward the end, when I was utterly entranced, that the piano began to emit a strange buzzing. Was it a broken string in the lower register? The buzz became a whine. No, it wasn’t coming from the piano. The whine rose and swelled into the wail of an air-raid siren. Edouard said, “Ah, c’est pas possible,” and took his hands from the keyboard.

There was nothing to be done. The director of the institute and his ushers insisted we take cover. Edouard, furious, strode out saying, “Damn the planes, I’m going home,” brushing off all restraining arms and pleas to stay. I didn’t blame him.