“The director was—still is—Francesco Bellini, this venerable Italian who was known for being a kingmaker. It felt like he took special notice of me right away—but then, it was hard to know if that was because of my talent or because I stuck out. It will probably not shock you to know I was the only black woman in my section. To be honest, I didn’t even care why. He was so charming, incredibly charismatic. He felt like a father figure. I trusted him. In the beginning, he brought out the best in me, I was improving so fast. The better I got, the more attention he paid me, and it was honestly addictive. Eventually, he started wanting to work with me privately. I’m sure you’re worldly enough to imagine where this story is headed. I was so naive, he’d been married for thirty years to this stunning woman. Evidently, there were all kinds of rumors about him, but no one thought to warn me.

“It started with rubbing my shoulders, you know, loosening them up to help my strokes,” she continues, rolling her eyes, “then it was pushing my legs apart to adjust my stance. And it just escalated . . . He would touch himself while I played.” I’m frozen in horror, listening to her. “It was awful. At first, it was just a major distraction and my playing got worse. But then he lost his goddamn mind and told his wife he was going to leave her for me. Mind you, I never cosigned any of this! But the story becomes that we’re having an affair.”

“That’s ludicrous.”

“Well, the media didn’t care so much about the facts. I was one of the youngest cellists there, so it seemed like I stood to gain from his attentions. Oh, the irony! He was the one who ruined my career. He’s doing fine, mind you. His wife took him back; apparently, this is something he just does every few years. He never follows through with it, it’s just some little temper tantrum. He has to keep his wife on her toes or something? For the sadistic pleasure of it? I don’t know. It just doesn’t usually get out to the press.”

“How did it get out to the press?” I ask.