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television.
    "Thank you." Paul peered inside. There were rows of miniature liquor bottles of the sort his father collected, Toblerone chocolate bars, cashew nuts.
    After some consideration he chose pear nectar, while Kennington poured himself a glass of bourbon from a large bottle on the windowsill. Paul looked around. It was easily the fanciest hotel room he'd ever been in. The walls were upholstered in some sort of creamy silk fabric he would have liked to caress. Chintz curtains patterned with roses met over the windows. The dark walnut of the armoire matched that of the bedstead, which encased a big double mattress, its sheet folded over neatly in one corner. Yet what impressed Paul even more than the luxury of the room was that Kennington had thrown his things around as casually as if it were anywhere at all: a can of shaving cream on the dresser, a bruised wallet and some change on the side table, a skinny black sock draped over a chair.
    They sat, Paul in the china blue armchair, Kennington on the edge of the bed.
    "Well,
cin-cin,
" Paul said, and toasted.
    "
Cin-cin.
"
    "You're very nice to have invited me up," he continued. "Believe me, I never expected it."
    "Why?"
    "Well, you must have much better things to do with your time than sit here with a page turner."
    "Not really."
    "But what about your tour?"
    "It's over. As of this morning, I'm officially on vacation."
    "Still, you must know a lot of people in Rome."
    "No."
    Blushing, Paul scratched at the fabric of the armchair. "Boy, I almost can't believe this is happening. Maybe it's jet lag. I mean, when I walked up to that concierge, I was sweating bullets. I never in a million years imagined—"
    "You are ballsy, I'll give you that. When I was your age, I never would have been brave enough—"
    "Oh, but I'm not brave. Or I should say, I'd never have been brave if it hadn't been you. Only when I saw that poster, and saw that I'd missed your concert by just one night, I couldn't bear the bad timing of it, especially after what happened in San Francisco. So I decided to take my chances. I just started calling one hotel after another, only the five-star ones, of course."
    Kennington stretched out his legs. "The page turner from San Francisco," he said, smiling. Then he got up and, strolling over to Paul's chair, knelt in front of him and tousled his hair. "You know, Tushi couldn't get over how well dressed you were. Better than she was, in my opinion."
    "I only dressed the way I would have expected a page turner to dress if I'd been playing."
    "How old did you say you were?"
    "I didn't. I'm eighteen."
    "Eighteen," Kennington repeated. "I'll bet you're still growing chest hair." He fingered Paul's open collar.
    "When you were my age, you were on your second European tour," Paul said, wriggling.
    "I was very bad in those days. I was always threatening to hurt my hands."
    "Hurt them?"
    "You know, stick them into alligators' mouths."
    "You're joking—"
    "And once I put my right hand into the garbage disposal and threatened to turn it on. My mother had to switch off the circuit breakers."
    "Why did you do that? Stop, you're tickling me."
    "To scare people. You must be tired from your flight."
    "Not tired enough that I wouldn't have hurried over to your concert if it had been tonight. I would have given anything to hear you play the Chopin B-flat minor sonata. And speaking of the B-flat minor sonata, I meant to ask you, do you take the first-movement repeat—"
    "I know when I get off a long flight, there's nothing I like better than a nice backrub."
    "And if you do—"
    "Want me to give you one? Get up. That's right." He sat in Paul's chair. "Now sit down. On the floor. Good." Hard legs enfolded Paul, who felt a sudden yanking on his shoulders.
    He made a sound.
    "Too deep?"
    "No, it's okay. The fact is, I've never had a backrub. And you've got big hands. Me, I've got smallish hands. Ow! Miss Novotna says it doesn't matter, not everyone has hands like