It is a glorious afternoon in Rome. The sun bathes the old buildings in a suffused light. Together with my brother I’m climbing a long, narrow marble staircase in an ancient palace. When we arrive at the top, an open door leads us into an elegant apartment overlooking the roofs of the city. There is a black upright piano by the French doors. Swallows dart across the blue sky. Igor Stravinsky is at the piano, waiting for us. We sit next to him and listen, while he tells us about the music he’s writing. Then he plays softly an unusual sequence of chords, thirds in both hands. I am overwhelmed by these sounds. He talks some more, his hands waving in the air. After a while we leave, and the beautiful, pungent harmony is forever etched in my mind.