Desmond tapped the blond boy on the shoulder. He turned around as if someone had assaulted him, although he didn’t pause a beat in his conversation or stop sliding his feet back and forth, obviously in rhythm to whatever music was coming in over the yellow headphones. This was what they called multitasking, something at which this generation was supposed to be gifted. But how much of a gift was it to be adept at doing three things simultaneously when each of them was pointless? He had on a ribbed sleeveless T-shirt stretched over his skinny body and a pair of baggy shorts. And now that Desmond looked, it wasn’t blond hair at all, but a bleached-out white mop that had been hacked off unevenly. “Would you mind holding it down?” Desmond asked. “I’m trying to talk on the phone, as you can see.”

“Oh, well, gee, I am sorry,” he said. Instead of turning around, he stared at Desmond. “No,” he said into the receiver, “just some guy I was bothering. Yeah, not bad. How am I supposed to know? I can’t tell from what he’s wearing.”

Desmond stared back. He was probably in his early twenties, attractive in an obvious sort of way. Desmond was galled and flattered that he was talking about him so blatantly, and then tried to imagine sneaking him up the mahogany staircase with the Roller Blades on his feet. What have you got there, Mr. Sullivan?

“You still there?” Russell asked.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, just some kid on skates.” He turned his back on temptation. “You know I’ve been missing Boris the past two weeks. What’s he been playing?”

“Now that you mention it, I haven’t heard him at all,” Russell said. “Maybe he’s given up the piano.”

Over the past two years, Boris had become such a steady and reliable barometer of Russell’s feelings about himself and the relationship, it unnerved Desmond to hear Russell make this announcement so calmly. “That seems unlikely. He’s finally making progress. He wouldn’t give it up now.”

“Maybe he figured he isn’t a true pianist and never will be. Maybe he’s found a quieter creative outlet. Maybe he’s taken up painting.”

That was an oddly specific suggestion, one which perhaps contained some clue as to what was going on in Russell’s sequestered emotional life. Desmond tried to remember who among their friends and acquaintances was a painter, but no one came to mind. “Listen,” he said, “I’ve been given the class schedule and it looks as if I have a long weekend on Columbus Day. I thought I’d come down then.”

“That would be great,” Russell said, though not with anything you could optimistically call enthusiasm. “I’ve been so busy, it seems as if you’ve just left.”