Paul and I say our goodbyes in the dingy half-light of a Berlin bar. His fastidious punctuality has given way to a soft fatigue brought on by the end of long night’s work, but his professional guard remains firmly in place. The hug is cordial, measured in its familiarity. We ask one another the unobtrusive questions to which two colleagues are obliged when a brief but intense stint of shared work recedes and leaves a new gulf of distance in its place: When do you leave town, where are you heading, anything fun coming up? I tell him I leave tomorrow for Bucharest: The Enescu Festival is mounting a one-night-only production of Messiaen’s four-hour “Saint François d’Assise.” I’ve never seen the opera. I want to be there when it happens.
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