He looked at Chiara. He looked at Luigi. He looked at the weeping prompter.

When the last chord—a discordant, glorious, impossible chord—faded into the ringing silence, the musicians were panting. Some were laughing. Chiara was crying. Luigi had snapped his bow.

“But listen.” He pointed to the snapped bass string. “That string didn’t break because it was old. It broke because it was honest . It was playing with a passion that this room could not contain.”

Bellini lowered his baton. He turned to face the empty, dilapidated auditorium. The velvet seats were moth-eaten. The chandelier was dark.