He had known many composers, in the years when he tuned pianos, but the one who came to mind was David Barber. It was logical: Jasper Gwyn distinctly recalled a composition of his for clarinet, fan, and plumbing pipes. It wasn’t even so bad. The pipes gurgled a lot.
For years they had been out of touch, but when Jasper Gwyn gained a certain fame David Barber had sought him out to propose that he write the text for a cantata. He hadn’t done anything about it (it was a cantata for recorded voice, seltzer siphon, and string orchestra), but the two had remained in contact. David was a likable fellow, his hobby was hunting, and he lived in the midst of dogs, all of whom were named for pianists, something that allowed Jasper Gwyn to declare, without lying, that he had once been bitten by Radu Lupu. As a composer David had for a long time enjoyed hanging out with the more festive wing of the New York avant-garde: he didn’t make much money, but success with women was assured. Then for a long period he had disappeared, following certain esoteric ideas he had about tonal relationships and teaching what he apparently had learned in various university-type circles. The last Jasper Gwyn had heard of him was when, in the papers, he had read about a symphony performed, unconventionally, at Old Trafford, the famous stadium in Manchester. The title of the work, ninety minutes long, was Semifinal.
Without too much effort he found the address, and appeared one morning at his house, in Fulham. When David Barber opened the door and saw him, he gave him a big hug, as if he had been expecting him. Then they went to the park together, to take Martha Argerich to shit. He was a spinone from the Vendée.