And what's that? Harrington asked mockingly. I have nothing to lose. The words hung in the air between them, simple but profound.
Marcus watched understanding flicker across Vincent Harrington's face and with it a flash of something that might have been respect quickly suppressed. Nothing to lose, Harrington repeated slowly. How very dramatic. Tell me, Marcus, what do you think happens next in this fairy tale you've constructed?
You play three pieces adequately, and suddenly the doors of Carnegie Hall swing open. Agents line up to represent you. Recording contracts materialized from thin air. I think, Marcus said, his voice steady despite his racing heart, that I proved I can play.
The rest is up to people like you, whether you'll let someone like me in or whether you'll keep pretending talent only exists in people who already have everything. A cell phone camera flash went off somewhere in the audience. Then another. Marcus suddenly realized that dozens of people were recording this confrontation.
This wasn't just happening in this room anymore. This was going out into the world onto social media where the gatekeepers had less control over the narrative. Harrington noticed too. His expression shifted, became more calculated.
He was a performer after all, and he understood audiences. The crowd was no longer entirely on his side, and any overt cruelty now would be captured and shared and potentially damage his carefully cultivated reputation. You want the truth, Harrington said. And now his voice carried a note of something almost like sincerity.
Here it is. The world of professional classical music is brutal. It chews up and spits out talented people every single day. People who've studied since they were three years old, who've won competitions, who've done everything right, they still fail.
They still end up teaching lessons in strip malls or playing in hotel lobbies. That's the reality. I'm not trying to be cruel. I'm trying to save you from wasting years of your life on a dream that statistically won't happen, but it could happen.
Catherine Worthington said, still standing in the audience. Vincent, you talk about statistics and reality, but every successful musician was once someone people doubted. You were once a young pianist trying to make it. Someone gave you a chance.
I was properly trained, Harrington shot back. I attended Juilliard at 16. I won the Van Cliburn competition. I paid my dues through years of disciplined study.
Your father was Maxwell Harrington, Dr. Crawford interrupted. Maxwell Harrington, who owned three concert halls and personally knew Leonard Bernstein. Let's not pretend you climbed the mountain alone, Vincent. The crowd murmured.
This was information most people knew, but politely didn't mention. Harrington had talent certainly, but he'd also had advantages that most musicians could only dream of. Harrington's face tightened. My father's connections opened doors.