Anyone doubting that Evgeny Kissin’s Carnegie Hall recital was indeed a big event need only have shown up at the hall as I did—ticketless, mere minutes before the house-lights dimmed. The September 30 concert, which was the young Soviet pianist’s North American debut, had sold out, and scores of would-be concertgoers—Russian émigrés, aging piano groupies, and music students—crowded the sidewalk, each of them scheming for a seat inside. Although some of these have-nots seemed coolly confident about getting what they wanted, there was also a swarm of manic music lovers prepared to accost anyone who might wish to part with a ticket.

Of these swarmers, I must have appeared immeasurably the most desperate—or the most gullible. I had only just posted myself near the center of action when I was approached by a couple who, in respective size and demeanor, bore a strong resemblance to those irrepressible cartoon spies, Boris and Natasha. They suggested—in thick, muted tones—that they would be willing to resell a freshly purchased ten-dollar seat for an even one hundred dollars.

I was approached by a couple who, in respective size and demeanor, bore a strong resemblance to those irrepressible cartoon spies, Boris and Natasha.

Should I be ashamed to admit that —stepping off to the side with them—I allowed them to empty my wallet? Should I be even more ashamed that I answered honestly the Romanian émigré who, upon our breathless assumption of the rearest of rear balcony seats, asked me what