In the front row of the glorious Art Deco concert hall, Robbie Templeton sat mesmerized. Later, he would be unable to recall the specific piece that Paolo had been conducting. All he remembered was the beauty and grace of his movements, at one with the music, swept up in the same passion that Robbie himself felt whenever he sat at a piano stool. Robbie could see nothing of Paolo but his back-an ill-fitting tuxedo jacket stretched across broad, workman’s shoulders-but it didn’t matter. Just watching Cozmici at work gave him a sexual charge so violent it was all Robbie could do not to jump out of his chair and storm the stage.
Afterward he waited at the stage door for hours. When Cozmici finally emerged, tired, grumpy and more than a little drunk, Robbie found to his horror that he was completely tongue-tied. Staring mutely, like an idiot, he watched as his idol began to walk away.
“Arrêtez! Monsieur Cozmici. Je vous en prie…”
“I don’t do autographs,” Cozmici barked. “Please, leave me alone.”
“But I…”
“Yes? What?”
“I love you.”
Paolo Cozmici looked at the boy properly for the first time. Even through his drunken haze, he could see that Robbie was extraordinarily attractive. On the downside, he was clearly a lunatic. A sexy lunatic was not what Paolo Cozmici needed in his life right now.
“Get away from me. Understand? Leave me alone, or I shall be forced to call the police.”
The next morning, Paolo found a handwritten note in his mailbox.
“I’ll be playing piano at Le Club Canard tonight. My set starts at eight P.M. I’ll understand if you can’t make it, but I hope you can.” It was signed: “Le garcon de la nuit passée. RT.”
Paolo Cozmici smiled. He had to admire the boy for his tenacity. It was what he was famed for himself.
But no, he wouldn’t go. The whole thing was crazy.
Sexy lunatic would have to find someone else to harass.
Robbie peered into the gloomy half light of the club, searching for Paolo Cozmici’s face.
He’s not coming. I scared him off. Man, of course I scared him off. What kind of fruit loop yells “I love you” in the street to a man he’s never met before? The loneliness must be getting to me.
Madame Aubrieau was becoming impatient. It was time for Robbie’s set to start. Launching into Bill Evans’s soulful “Waltz for Debby” followed by a passionate rendition of “My Foolish Heart,” he was embarrassed to find himself fighting back tears. Jazz was not Robbie’s preferred genre, but no one could deny that Bill Evans was a genius. The fact that he’d been a heroin junkie, like Robbie, dogged by addiction and self-doubt for most of his life, made the emotional connection even stronger. Robbie closed his eyes and gave himself up to the music. He thought about Lexi and his mother. He thought about home. He wondered how long he could bear to continue in this half-life in Paris, with no friends, no family, no hope.
He heard the applause dimly at first, as if waking up from a dream. He had no idea how long he’d been playing. As so often with Robbie, the music had transported him into a trance-like state where time and space dissolved. But as the cheers and clapping grew louder, he realized that the usually somnolent Canard crowd was on its feet, roaring approval, begging him for more. Robbie smiled, nodding in shy acknowledgment. As soon as he stood up, he found his hand being shaken and his back slapped by a sea of strangers, men and women alike. Some of them pressed notes into his hand.
“Incroyable.”
“Absolument superbe!”
“Twenty percent of those tips go to the house,” Madame Aubrieau reminded him tersely. She considered Robbie her property and disliked seeing him mobbed by other, more attractive women.
“Good evening.”
Paolo Cozmici looked even shorter and squatter than he had last night, scurrying away from the stage door at the Salle Pleyel. In a crumpled suit and tie, an incipient paunch spilling over the waistband of his pants, he could easily have been a decade older than his thirty years. But none of that mattered to Robbie. He was so awestruck he could barely force the words out of his mouth.
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
“Nor did I. You play beautifully.”
“I…thank you.”
“You realize you are wasting your talent in this dump?”
Paolo glared at him aggressively, as if accusing him of some sort of crime. Robbie could see why they called him Le Bouledogue.
“I need the money. I’d love to play classical, but I have no formal training. At least, nothing that’s recognized in France.”
“Ça ne fait rien.” Paolo waved his hand in the air dismissively. “You will play for me. You will play with my orchestre. Where do you live?”
“Ogrement.”
Paolo looked at him blankly.
“Épinay. It’s a suburb…”
For the second time in as many minutes Paolo narrowed his eyes, his face alight with disapproval.
“People with your gift do not live in the suburbs. Non. You live with me.”
Paolo turned and headed for the coat check.
“Qu’est ce qu’il y a? Tu viens, ou quoi?”
“Oui.” Robbie laughed aloud. Was this really happening? “Yes. Yes, I’m coming.”
The next morning, Paolo introduced Robbie to the Orchestre de Paris.
“This is Robert Templeton. He is the finest pianist in Paris. He will be playing with us tomorrow night.”
A sea of bewildered faces looked quizzically at Robbie.
“But, Maestro,” Pierre Fremeaux, the regular piano soloist, interjected meekly. “I am supposed to be playing tomorrow.”