August in New York City—half-past eight.  He sips red wine (Château de Beaucastel) as half a dozen women percolate bilingually in English and Chanel.  Across the room: a painting by Vermeer.  A concert grand, a woman.  She’ll finesse a Reidel “O” with lips like Everclear.  She’s tall.  She’s Harvard.  Men have died for less.  Between Coquilles Saint-Jacques and caviar he’s crossed the room.  He plays Rachmaninoff.  She smiles.  He’s suave.  She knows the repertoire.  Clothes?  Tailor made.  Hers?  Hemmed by Molotov.  He polishes a last insouciant riff.  He stands.  He kisses her hand.  She says: “As if.”