I wanted cascades of Saint-Saëns, gazelle-leaps of Brahms, but instead was cement-blocked into Mozart and the second violin section.  Then he catapulted me, literally from one day to the next, into spotlights, tours, autographs, soaring melodies on the rarest of Strads.  And every minute I am grateful.  And unsettled.  I keep reminding myself that he was once a saint, well, to the extent that all angels can be saints, even ex-angels.  Look at Michael.  And you can’t argue with saints.  And it certainly is a blessing to escape from that old life in which I remembered every minute how foolish I had been in those wrong turns.  And it was not my decision to take on the fabulous life that I should have had by taking it away from her.  That was his work.  But I still worry.  What should I do if I find myself face to face with Tasmin?  Apologize?  And would she know what I’m apologizing about?  And if I didn’t?  Could I just walk by?  Or would she let me?  The night I let my bow skitter during the slow movement of the Beethoven, I was thinking about her.  There are days when it wants to skitter by itself.  And I’m afraid that it might not stop.  Ever.