I stood up and walked into the living room, leaving the large French windows open so that he might hear me play it on the piano. He followed me halfway and, leaning on the windows’ wooden frame, listened for a while. “You changed it. It’s not the same. What did you do to it?” “I just played it the way Liszt would have played it had he jimmied around with it.” “Just play it again, please!” I liked the way he feigned exasperation. So I started playing the piece again. After a while: “I can’t believe you changed it again.” “Well, not by much. This is just how Busoni would have played it if he had altered Liszt’s version.” “Can’t you just play the Bach the way Bach wrote it?” “But Bach never wrote it for guitar. He may not even have written it for the harpsichord. In fact, we’re not even sure it’s by Bach at all.” “Forget I asked.” “Okay, okay. No need to get so worked up,” I said. It was my turn to feign grudging acquiescence. “This is the Bach as transcribed by me without Busoni and Liszt. It’s a very young Bach and it’s dedicated to his brother.”