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father’s favourite books. But sitting there at Walter’s house listening to Noël, I could hardly keep my eyes focused on the page; I just kept thinking to myself how terribly portentousthis was, that I had stumbled upon a book on Robert and Clara Schumann, one of the greatest musical and romantic partnerships in history, who’d met at a musical soiree thrown by Clara’s father. I’d always been very taken by the idea that the most profound events in one’s life could take place, not at the end of some arduous trek, but quite fortuitously—any moment could be your very last before fate swoops down and snatches you in its talons.
    ‘For heaven’s sake, put the book away.’ Anton was squatting down beside me. ‘Noël is very fond of playing duets and I told him you’d be delighted to join him.’
    I looked over at the piano. Just at that moment, Noël, still playing, lifted his head, and it was as if the spell he was under suddenly lifted, flinging his presence into the room. He was now at a party—Noël the birthday boy. He looked at me, smiling like an old friend, improvising upon the Schumann, spilling into flamboyant flourishes.
    ‘Don’t be afraid, he’s a charming young man,’ Anton said.
    Anton had called Noël a charming young man ; Noël had beckoned me over; it was too extraordinary—maybe I was drunk. I had no time to think about what was happening, something was lifting me to my feet. I turned to Anton and thanked him, then walked around the side of the piano, barely able to feel my legs carrying me along.
    Noël looked up with a chummy smile, his hands continuing to play as if they didn’t belong to him. Iwalked behind him and, without a word, edged onto the burgundy leather piano stool, our bodies almost touching. I looked down and saw how close we were—the grey plaid of my trousers only inches from the charcoal wool of his—and when his arm brushed along mine, it felt like the pluck of a harpsichord string rippling right through me. I might have been sitting next to Schumann himself.
    The piece Noël was playing, the Fantasie opus 17, is Schumann’s most passionate piano composition, a piece I must have heard a thousand times as a child. But how different it sounded that evening, being played for me by Noël Mewton-Wood.
    My father used to tell me that the Fantasie was a love letter written in musical notes, the falling five-note phrase at the beginning of the first movement echoing a quote from one of Beethoven’s love songs. Schumann wrote it during the three years when his teacher Friedrich Wieck forbade the struggling young composer from making any contact with his teenage daughter Clara. The separation unleashed a frenzy of artistic activity in Schumann—he composed piece after piece, reams of extraordinary music, then found a way to deliver them to Clara.
    I used to love listening to this piece with my father. Huddled together at the gramophone, I’d watch the black disc circling around on its bakelite base, the needle bobbing up and down in its groove, then hear that warm crackling sound before the music started.
    My father would be peering down through the glasses that clung to the end of his nose, staring at the score in his lap. As the music began his finger would travel along the phrases like a boat sailing along smooth water, leaving a trail of notes in its wake. And whenever that five-note phrase appeared in the music, he’d tap me then hold up his finger, tracing the melody through the air, as it hung so visibly in front of him.
    The Fantasie was the first piece of music with which I fell in love.
    Noël had just returned to the main theme and was approaching the coda, where the reference to Beethoven’s amorous line is unmistakable, repeating over and over. The rumbling left hand slowed into an adagio, Noël’s fingers barely stroking the ivory keys. The final announcement—pianissimo—stripped of accompaniment, was like a shyly spoken revelation; his long white