By the time I had finished my drink, he looked [local pianist from Midwestern city] to me calm enough to attend to business. I handed him the music for our concert the next night. “Splendid. It’s like meeting dear old friends again,” he said, lovingly leafing the music. “Ha, Brahms F Major. I bet you don’t take the tempo of the first movement too slowly, as most cellists do. Allegro vivace- are they blind or deaf?” he demanded accusingly. His mood changed rapidly every new piece./ “-the little Debussy sonata – adorable.” He caressed the title page. “Well, well, here is the Cappricio of Hindemith. I played it when it was still a manuscript. Quite German, don’t you think? But so was Bach.” He burst into laughter. “I must not forget to tell it to my master class.” He refilled my glass and became more serious. “My friend,” he said, “should I have been asked, instead of you, to make the program, it would be an identical one. Extraordinary! All music I know and love best. I suggest that we rest a day and that tomorrow, any time at your convenience, we run through the program – major works, bric-a-brac, and all. The other day I mentioned bric-a-brac at the academy. I said that it’s nothing but encores and inferior short pieces.” Delighted at the prospect of a free afternoon and evening, I agreed with everything he said. / A lucky stroke, I thought next morning after a good night’s sleep, to find such an experienced pianist in this city. I enjoyed my breakfast, went for a long stroll, returned to my room, and wrote several cheerful letters. After practicing and having a light lunch I unhurriedly walked to the rehearsal. My new friend greeted me warmly and asked me to try his Turkish coffee, specially brewed for me. “No, thanks, let’s work.” / “All right, I’m ready.” I had the impression his voice trembled a little. / “Debussy,” I said. It took him an unduly long time to look for the music, to find it, and to settle in his chair. “Are you sure you are comfortable?” he asked, blew his nose, and finally began. I listened, but, believing that he was joking, asked him to repeat the few bars again. This time, to my horror, I had no doubt that the man could barely play the piano. Shocked, I stared at his pale face. He got up from his chair and said, “What’s the use? I confess I can’t play. Yes, as simple as that. Please,” he pleaded, “don’t ruin my position in this community which I have so carefully built.”/ Unwilling to cancel the concert, I arrived at the hall. To my surprise, my collaborator, cheerful in his elegant tails, waited for me in the green room. “I have a marvelous idea,” he said, as jovially as our first meeting. “I will make an announcement that you have lost all your music on the train and that you will play works for cello alone. Oh, we will enjoy it so much to hear your Bach: and as a surprise, at the end of the concert we will play this encore together. I have practiced it for two days.” He showed me a childishly easy minuet by Valensin which he must have picked from my music. His entry on the stage and the announcement were received by the full-house audience with cheers. / After an evening of two suites by Bach, one by Reger, and my own fantasy for cello alone, the “maestro” joined me with the minuetto. I followed his clumsy accompaniment as carefully as I could and he took many bows to the grateful audience with me. << less