One of the executives, red-faced from too many drinks, chimed in. "Hey, let's hear Beethoven play! Might be worth a laugh."
His companions chuckled. Phillips hesitated, seeing potential entertainment value.
"You know what? Fine." Phillips gestured toward the piano with exaggerated courtesy. "The stage is yours, maestro. Amuse us."
James felt every eye in the room: the weight of expectation, the anticipation of failure, the preparation for mockery. He'd felt worse pressure—mortar fire, screaming wounded, the silence after losing a patient despite everything you tried.
The bartender, Emily, slid a glass of water across the counter as he passed. A small kindness.
He nodded. "Thanks."
The piano bench was still warm from the previous player. James sat, adjusting the height with practiced hands. The keys gleamed—ivory and ebony perfection. How long had it been? Two years since he'd touched a proper piano. Not since before the nightmares got too bad, before the apartment was gone, before he'd become invisible.
His reflection in the polished black surface was a stranger: hollow cheeks, untrimmed beard, eyes too old for his forty years. But his hands—his hands remembered.
"Any day now, maestro," Phillips called, generating more laughter.
James closed his eyes briefly. What to play? Something to match their expectations of failure, or something to silence them? The answer came easily. His mother had played it. His first teacher had refined it. Juilliard had perfected it. Afghanistan had preserved it as his mental escape during the worst moments: Chopin's Ballade No. 1 in G minor.
It began softly, deceptively simple—a question posed to an indifferent world. James positioned his fingers and took a breath.
"Ten bucks says he can't make it through Chopsticks," someone muttered, loud enough for James to hear.