“No doubt a fool,” Ernesto said. “But a romantic fool. Happy to starve, so long as he can sit in our square all afternoon.”

He was thin, sandy-haired and wore unfashionable spectacles-huge frames that made him look like a panda. He turned up day after day, and I don’t remember how exactly it happened, but after a while we began to sit and talk with him in between sets. And sometimes if he came to the cafe during our evening session, we’d call him over afterwards, maybe treat him to some wine and crostini.

We soon discovered Tibor was Hungarian, not Russian; that he was probably older than he looked, because he’d already studied at the Royal Academy of Music in London, then spent two years in Vienna under Oleg Petrovic. After a rocky start with the old maestro, he’d learnt to handle those legendary temper tantrums and had left Vienna full of confidence-and with a series of engagements in prestigious, if small, venues around Europe. But then concerts began to get cancelled due to low demand; he’d been forced to perform music he hated; accommodation had proved expensive or sordid.

So our city’s well-organised Arts and Culture Festival-which was what brought him here that summer-had been a much-needed boost, and when an old friend from the Royal Academy had offered him a free apartment for the summer down near the canal, he’d taken it up without hesitation. He was enjoying our city, he told us, but cash was always a problem, and though he’d had the occasional recital, he was now having to think hard about his next move.

It was after a while of listening to these worries that Giancarlo and Ernesto decided we should try and do something for him. And that was how Tibor got to meet Mr. Kaufmann, from Amsterdam, a distant relative of Giancarlo’s with connections in the hotel world.

I remember that evening very well. It was still early in the summer, and Mr. Kaufmann, Giancarlo, Ernesto, all the rest of us, we sat indoors, in the back room of the cafe, listening to Tibor play his cello. The young man must have realised he was auditioning for Mr. Kaufmann, so it’s interesting now to remember how keen he was to perform that night. He was obviously grateful to us, and you could see he was pleased when Mr. Kaufmann promised to do what he could for him on his return to Amsterdam. When people say Tibor changed for the worse that summer, that his head got too big for his own good, that this was all down to the American woman, well, maybe there’s something in that.

TIBOR HAD BECOME A WARE of the woman while sipping his first coffee of the day. At that moment, the piazza was pleasantly cool-the cafe end remains shaded for much of the morning-and the paving stones were still wet from the city workers’ hoses. Having gone without breakfast, he’d watched enviously while at the next table she’d ordered a series of fruit-juice concoctions, then-apparently on a whim, for it wasn’t yet ten o’clock-a bowl of steamed mussels. He had the vague impression the woman was, for her part, stealing glances back at him, but hadn’t thought too much about it. “She looked very pleasant, beautiful even,” he told us at the time. “But as you see, she’s ten, fifteen years older than me. So why would I think anything was going on?”

He’d forgotten about her and was preparing to get back to his room for a couple of hours’ practice before his neighbour came in for lunch and turned on that radio, when suddenly there was the woman standing in front of him.

She was beaming broadly, everything in her manner suggesting they already knew each other. In fact it was only his natural shyness that stopped him greeting her. Then she placed a hand on his shoulder, as though he’d failed some test but was being forgiven anyway, and said:

“I was at your recital the other day. At San Lorenzo.”

“Thank you,” he replied, even as he realised how foolish this might sound. Then when the woman just went on beaming down at him, he said: “Oh yes, the San Lorenzo church. That’s correct. I did indeed give a recital there.”

The woman laughed, then suddenly seated herself in the chair in front of him. “You say that like you’ve had a whole string of engagements lately,” she said, a hint of mockery in her voice.

“If that is so, I’ve given you a misleading impression. The recital you attended was my only one in two months.”

“But you’re just starting out,” she said. “You’re doing fine to get any engagements at all. And that was a good crowd the other day.”

“A good crowd? There were only twenty-four people.”

“It was the afternoon. It was good for an afternoon recital.”

“I should not complain. Still, it wasn’t a good crowd. Tourists with nothing better to do.”

“Oh! You shouldn’t be so dismissive. After all, I was there. I was one of those tourists.” Then as he began to redden-for he hadn’t meant to give offence-she touched his arm and said with a smile: “You’re just starting out. Don’t worry about audience size. That’s not why you’re performing.”

“Oh? Then why am I performing if not for an audience?”

“That’s not what I said. What I’m saying to you is that at this stage in your career, twenty in the audience or two hundred, it doesn’t matter. Should I tell you why not? Because you’ve got it!”

“I have it?”

“You have it. Most definitely. You have… potential.”

He stifled a brusque laugh that came to his lips. He felt more reproach towards himself than for her, for he had expected her to say “genius” or at least “talent” and it immediately struck him how deluded he’d been to expect such a comment. But the woman was continuing:

“At this stage, what you’re doing is waiting for that one person to come and hear you. And that one person might just as easily be in a room like that one on Tuesday, in a crowd of just twenty people…”

“There were twenty-four, not including the organisers…”

“Twenty-four, whatever. What I’m saying is that numbers don’t matter right now. What matters is that one person.”

“You refer to the man from the recording company?”

“Recording? Oh no, no. That’ll take care of itself. No, I mean the person who’ll make you blossom. The person who’ll hear you and realise you’re not just another well-trained mediocrity. That even though you’re still in your chrysalis, with just a little help, you’ll emerge as a butterfly.”

“I see. By any chance, might you be this person?”

“Oh, come on! I can see you’re a proud young man. But it doesn’t look to me like you have so many mentors falling over themselves to get to you. At least not ones of my rank.”

It occurred to him then that he was in the midst of making a colossal blunder, and he considered the woman’s features carefully. She’d now removed her sunglasses, and he could see a face that was essentially gentle and kind, yet with upset and perhaps anger not far away. He went on looking at her, hoping he’d soon recognise her, but in the end he was forced to say:

“I’m very sorry. You are perhaps a distinguished musician?”

“I’m Eloise McCormack,” she announced with a smile, and held out her hand. Unfortunately, the name meant nothing to Tibor and he found himself in a quandary. His first instinct was to feign astonishment, and he actually said: “Really. This is quite amazing.” Then he pulled himself together, realising such bluffing was not only dishonest, but likely to lead to embarrassing exposure within seconds. So he sat up straight and said:

“Miss McCormack, it’s an honour to meet you. I realise this will seem unbelievable to you, but I beg you to make allowances both for my youth and for the fact that I grew up in the former Eastern bloc, behind the Iron Curtain. There are many film stars and political personalities who are household names in the West, of whom, even today, I remain ignorant. So you must forgive me that I do not know precisely who you are.”