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studio, went back into the living room, and poured himself a drink. He’d skip the painkiller. He decided he needed the alcohol more.
    When he settled on the couch a few minutes later, the heat of the cognac warmed his chest. With a deep breath, he picked up the telephone and hit one of the speed dial numbers. He wasn’t looking forward to this call.
     
     
    “Y OU what?” Georges Duhamel shouted through the phone.
    “I got mugged,” Cary repeated, holding the handset between his chin and shoulder and rubbing his face with his right hand. “I broke my wrist. Mon poignet .” He figured the guy probably had understood the first time—his English was far better than he let on—but he thought he’d make sure.
    “ Espèce de con ,” his agent cursed under his breath.
    “I heard that, Georges,” Cary said in French. He took another deep swallow of his drink.
    “Good, you stupid boy. I will not ask what you were doing. Tu me fais chier , avec ton —”
    “I know I piss you off,” Cary interrupted, shifting back to English again and chuckling. “But you still love me, don’t you?”
    “As if.”
    “You’ll need to cancel the Rome gig next month, but I should be able to do the master classes, even if I can’t play yet.”
    “What about Florence in January?”
    “The doctor says I should be good to go by December. January should be fine.”
    There was silence on the other end of the phone, then a resigned “Fine. I take care of it.”
    “Thanks, Georges.”
    “Oh, I almost forgot. Maestro Somers is in Milan conducting. He said to call him so you might have dinner while he’s here. He tried to call you, but you didn’t answer your phone.” There was a soft huffing sound on the other end of the call, but when Cary said nothing, Georges continued, “He also says there’s a cancellation on the Chicago Symphony schedule in March. He wanted to know if you could substitute. The Elgar or the Dvořák B Minor. Your choice.”
    “Dvořák,” Cary said without hesitation. “The Elgar’s too gloomy for Chicago in the winter.”
    Georges laughed. “March is spring.”
    “Not in Chicago. Too damn cold.” Cary hesitated a moment, then added, “I’m sorry to put you out like this.” He meant it too.
    “You are going to kill me. If you don’t kill yourself first.”
    “I’ll try to behave.”
    “Perhaps you find some nice man and make a home.”
    “Not anytime soon. Not if I can help it.”
    “I will send you e-mail when I get confirmation from Somers’s assistant. For now, you let Roberta make you eat well, and you sleep. No late nights, comprends ?”
    “You know I don’t speak French worth a damn,” Cary teased, reverting to French once more.
    “ Ta gueule ,” he heard Georges swear as he hung up the phone.
     
     
    B YFOURo’clock that afternoon, Cary was full of nervous energy, restless. He paced about the apartment, trying to find something to do with himself. He couldn’t remember when he’d spent an entire day without practicing, and the list of things he needed to do that didn’t require two good arms was far too short.
    His wrist ached too much for sit-ups, and lifting weights with one arm got old very quickly. He turned on the TV and watched reruns of CSI: Miami dubbed in Italian. The episodes were at least three years behind those in the States, he guessed. During the second episode, he fell asleep and awoke to find a message on his cell phone.
    I just wanted to check to see that you were feeling better , Antonio had said. I’ll call you in the morning.
    Morning. I guess that’s all she wrote. Apparently Antonio wasn’t all that interested in what he had to offer. Why would he be, anyhow? He had just been kind. Cary smiled sadly; he had honestly liked the man.
    Around eight that evening, Cary dragged himself to the kitchen and sat down at the table to pick at the food Roberta had left for him. It was, as always, delicious, and he was reminded of Antonio’s failed attempt at