While performing at the Olympia in Paris, I couldn't play the tremolo. More precisely, I played, but indistinctly and incorrectly—like novice guitarists who produce dull gurgles instead of notes. No one noticed, and the Olympia erupted in a storm of applause and cheers. I even forgot about my misstep, but sitting in the shadow of the screaming fans in the limousine, I became aware of the characteristic movement of my fingers. My right hand, as if atonement for a mistake it had made, began to tremble as if playing the unnecessary tremolo. The fingers moved unusually quickly, touching imaginary strings. In this way, the barber's scissors continue to cut the air, when they are momentarily separated from the hair. As I approached Charles de Gaulle Airport, I whistled the tune I'd failed to sing onto the windshield—nothing complicated. How could I have stumbled at a concert? From Paris, I flew to St. Petersburg to shoot a music video. My neighbor, sitting in the chair, fastened his seatbelt. He turned his head and froze. The man recognized me.