They meet for the last time in Sicily, near Pozzalo. The news is panicked with the sub-Mediterranean tremors, but these three knew weeks ago: they heard the flat note in the music of the world.

They stand on the beach as the tide rushes out too fast.

“Our biggest command performance ever,” chuckles Placido.

“At least,” says Luciano, “the whales will hear it.”

“Give us an E, Paulo?” Jose kindly asks his attendant.

Water thunders toward them, a hundred feet high. The boy blows a note on his pitch-pipe.

The Three Tenors open their mouths, and the tsunami hesitates.