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from someone who bought my records, and who had been to some of my concert performances. Towards the end of his long and mostly admiring letter, he wrote:
    I will not embarrass you, Monseignior Sussken, by noting my reactions to every single piece of music you have written, but I have enjoyed all your work. When a record is available I have always bought one, and several times I have bought extra copies to give to friends. I have particular admiration for
Tidal Symbols
, for
Breath
, and for your early masterpiece
Dianme
.
    So far so good. I had not received many letters like this, and I was glad to have this one. However, the writer went on:
    A few weeks ago my son, who had been on a school exchange trip to one of the islands to the south of us, came home with a record he had bought. It had the unusual title
The Lost Aviator
, or in its original language (the island demotic)
Pilota Marret
. It was rock music, which I do not like, but when I heard my son playing it my attention was immediately caught by some of the tracks. Much of the music sounded uncannily like yours, if you can imagine your work played in a raucous manner by a band of young men on electric guitars and drums. I’m sure I am not mistaken – at least half the tracks are either based on your work, or are crude transpositions of it. I have noticed distinct traces of
Dianme
and the rest of the
Detriment
suite,
Tidal Symbols
, at least three of your magnificent flute sonatas, your first piano concerto, and here and there many phrases and passages which are uniquely in your style.
    And so he went on, listing several more of my compositions, transcribed into music for amplified guitars.
    In fact, I did not mind the idea of this transposition as much as my correspondent said he did, because for me all music has a common purpose. I was too old to involve myself in rock music. I knew it was not for me but I had nothing against it. I did not, though, like the idea of someone stealing what I had written.
    The name of this rock musician is And Ante, which is also the name of his group. My son tells me that ‘And’ is a common first name for men in the Dream Archipelago – ‘Ante’ might be an adopted name as a performer, or might be his real name. I was wondering if you have been in touch with Monseignior Ante directly, and whether you have heard his record?
    He then added the name and address, in Glaund City, of a specialist importer of records, who was carrying a stock of Msr Ante’s
Lost Aviator
, in case I wanted to get hold of a copy.
    I wrote back to thank my correspondent, and in the same mail I sent off an order for a copy of the record.
    During the week that followed I was overseeing a composition workshop for a second season, guiding half a dozen young musicians at the start of their careers. I barely had time to think about what the letter said, and mentally postponed any reaction until I received my own copy of the record. The postponement was longer than I expected – the importers responded to my order with a note saying that they were waiting for more copies to arrive at their office. They enclosed a page from their recent catalogue.
    This described
Pilota Marret
. The company who had issued the record was based on an island in the Dream Archipelago called Temmil – another place I had never heard of. The record consisted of ten tracks, with And Ante listed as the writer of all the songs. There were four musicians in the band, including Ante himself, who played lead guitar. The other three played bass guitar, trumpet and drums – the bass guitarist was credited with most of the singing. The longest track on the record, with a running time of nearly fifteen minutes, was an instrumental called ‘Pilota Marret’, giving the album its overall name.
    I took what I believed was a sensible approach. Plagiarism aside, there was an element of flattery, a compliment almost, in the fact that someone thought my work was worth pilfering. I could never