Page Turner Pa by David Leavitt

what you just said about retiring, do you?" Paul asked.
    "Remember, I'm the man who stuck his hand into a garbage disposal. Like in
Carrie.
"
    "Why did you do it?"
    "I was angry, and tired. I've never much liked public life, only playing. Playing—it's hard to explain."
    "But playing
is
public."
    "And there lies the dilemma of my life. I have the wrong personality for my talent."
    "Better that than to have the wrong talent for your personality."
    They turned a corner. Down Via dei Condotti Pamela waved colored bags at them.
    "Remember what I told you," Kennington whispered. "Be careful."
    "Oh, I will," Paul said, grabbing Kennington's arm and squeezing hard.
    Â 
    Before dinner, they made one last, and as Paul realized later, horribly ironic, touristic expedition: they went to see the Bocca della Verità, or Mouth of Truth, into which Pamela remembered watching Gregory Peck insert his hand in
Roman Holiday.
A fourth-century manhole cover, roughly carved into the shape of a human face, the Bocca now hung in the portico of the little church of Santa Maria in Cosmedin.
    As usual, Paul read from his guidebook. "In the Middle Ages," he told Pamela and Kennington, "it was used for a sort of trial by ordeal to see if people—particularly wives suspected of unfaithfulness—were telling the truth. It was thought that if anyone told a lie while holding their right hand in the open mouth the terrible stone jaws would close, cutting off their fingers."
    "How awful," Pamela said.
    Paul shut his book. A string of couples, mostly Japanese, had formed a queue to the Bocca's left. One after another the wives put their right hands into the mouth; one after another the husbands took their pictures. Sometimes, in the click of the snapshot, the women would wince, as if they feared that what they were hearing was really the snap of jaws.
    When there was a lull, Pamela asked Kennington to take her picture, which he did. "Now yours," she said.
    "No, no," Kennington said. "I don't like being photographed."
    "Oh, come on," Pamela pleaded. "Just one."
    "Mom, when someone doesn't like being photographed—"
    "But this isn't an album cover. It's just one little snapshot. Come on. Please?"
    "Mom—"
    "Okay, okay," Kennington said, and stepped over to the Bocca.
    "Good," Pamela said. "Now stand there. Put your hand in, that's good. And be careful. Your fingers are more valuable than other people's."
    "Hurry up, will you?"
    "Hush, Paul, I just need to frame the picture ... fine. Now tell a lie."
    "A lie?"
    "So we can see if the legend's true."
    Kennington winced. "A lie ... I just can't think of one. Okay, how about this? I love being a pianist. I love my life as a pianist."
    The flash erupted. He winced.
    "Oh, Richard. Playing it safe, are you? But who can blame you?"
    Her face came into focus. He removed his hand.

8
    "H OTEL BRISTOL. "
    "Maestro Kennington's room, please."
    "I'm sorry, sir. He isn't back yet. Would you like to leave a message?"
    "No, no. I've already left one. Just make sure it was slipped under his door. Joseph Mansourian."
    "Yes, sir."
    "He didn't happen to say when he'd be back, did he?"
    "No sir."
    "All right. Thank you. Good night."
    "Good night."
    Â 
    Kennington, who really was in his room but had left instructions not to be disturbed, aimed the remote control at the television, flipping from station to station until he found CNN. Next to him, on the bed, Paul made paper airplanes.
    "Tell me about Miss Novotna," he said.
    "I'm not really the person to ask," Kennington said. "The truth is, I don't know her very well, given that she's supposedly responsible for my career."
    "But how can that be? You must run into each other all the time at parties."
    Kennington smiled. One of Paul's many naive notions was that adult life consisted chiefly of parties.
    "My guess is that Olga's a very old-fashioned person, in a lot of fundamental ways. And I am too. So we made a sort of unspoken agreement to steer clear of each