Most soloists are dwarfed by the huge twenty-eight-hundred-seat space at Carnegie Hall. There are not many musicians who can fill the prestigious hall, but on Friday night it was packed. Philip Adler walked out onto the vast stage to the thunderous applause of the audience. He sat down at the piano, paused a moment, then began to play. The program consisted of Beethoven sonatas. Over the years he had disciplined himself to concentrate only on the music. But on this night Philip's thoughts drifted away to Lara and their problems, and for a split second his fingers started to fumble, and he broke out in a cold sweat. It happened so swiftly that the audience did not notice.
There was loud applause at the end of the first part of the recital. At intermission Philip went to his dressing room.
The concert manager said, "Wonderful, Philip. You held them spellbound. Can I get anything for you?"
"No, thanks." Philip closed the door. He wished the recital were over. He was deeply disturbed by the situation with Lara. He loved her a great deal, and he knew she loved him, but they seemed to have come to an impasse. There had been a lot of tension between them before Lara had left for Reno. I've got to do something about it, Philip thought. But what? How do we compromise? He was still thinking about it when there was a knock at the door, and the stage manager's voice said, "Five minutes, Mr. Adler."
"Thank you."
The second half of the program consisted of the Hammerklavier sonata. It was a stirring, emotional piece, and when the last notes had thundered out through the vast hall, the audience rose to its feet with wild applause. Philip stood on the stage bowing, but his mind was elsewhere. I've got to go home and talk to Lara. And then he remembered that she was away. We'll have to settle this now, Philip thought. We can't go on like this.
The applause continued. The audience was shouting "bravo" and "encore." Ordinarily, Philip would have played another selection, but on this evening he was too upset. He returned to his dressing room and changed into his street clothes. From outside he could hear the distant rumble of thunder. The papers had said rain, but that had not kept the crowd away. The greenroom was filled with well-wishers waiting for him. It was always exciting to feel and hear the approval of his fans, but tonight he was in no mood for them. He stayed in his dressing room until he was sure the crowd had gone. When he came out, it was almost midnight. He walked through the empty backstage corridors and went out the stage door. The limousine was not there. I'll find a taxi, Philip decided.
He stepped outside into a pouring rain. There was a cold wind blowing, and Fifty-seventh Street was dark. As Philip moved toward Sixth Avenue, a large man in a raincoat approached from the shadows.
"Excuse me," he said, "how do you get to Carnegie Hall?"
Philip thought of the old joke he had told Lara and was tempted to say "practice," but he pointed to the building behind him. "It's right there."
As Philip turned, the man shoved him hard up against the building. In his hand was a deadly-looking switchblade knife. "Give me your wallet."
Philip's heart was pounding. He looked around for help. The rainswept street was deserted. "All right," Philip said. "Don't get excited. You can have it."
The knife was pressing against his throat.
"Look, there's no need to..."
"Shut up! Just give it to me."
Philip reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. The man grabbed it with his free hand and put it in his pocket. He was looking at Philip's watch. He reached down and tore it from Philip's wrist. As he took the watch, he grabbed Philip's left hand, held it tightly, and slashed the razor-sharp knife across Philip's wrist, slicing it to the bone. Philip screamed aloud with pain. Blood began to gush out. The man fled.
Philip stood there in shock, watching his blood mingling with the rain, dripping into the street.
He fainted.