He was bathed in Beethoven, showered with Chopin. And through it all he saw Valentina Borisova coming toward him out of the darkness, a single rose in her hands, her gray eyes wide with hope. But she couldn't get past the music. "Come to America with me!" he shouted, but the music was too loud. He saw her hope turn to despair, and when she started to disappear, they both screamed. And he awoke to Russian sunshine. * * * Irina was waiting for him in the lobby. "I won't need you today," he said. "Oh, but Mr. Fulton, we have a full schedule planned, and you will need an interpreter." "I'm not doing what you've scheduled, and I don't need an interpreter. Even Grigoriev said it was okay to skip your events. Sorry." Irina looked worried. She blinked several times behind her thick glasses, then glanced quickly around the small lobby, as if to check if anyone was there grading her performance. "But these are very wonderful events, Mr. Fulton. Meeting our young pianists at the conservatory, visiting Tchaikovsky's house in Klin—" Fulton shook his head.
