As Hastings stalked away, Marcus caught his mother's arm. Mama, one day I am going to play on that stage. I am going to show everyone. Hush now, she interrupted gently, but her eyes were sad.
Baby, we can't afford those kinds of dreams. Your keyboard at home, that's enough. You practice and enjoy it, but this, she said, gesturing at the grand piano, this world isn't meant for people like us.
But I'm good, Mama. You know I am, Marcus said. Mrs. Chen is a kind woman who gives you free lessons because she believes in you, Janet replied, her voice firmer now, and I am truly grateful for that. But Marcus, these people, she said, nodding toward the growing crowd of workers preparing the hall, they will never see you as anything but the help's son.
The sooner you accept that, the less it'll hurt. Marcus wanted to argue, wanted to tell her about the music he heard in his head, the compositions he'd been writing on scraps of paper, the way his fingers could make even that broken keyboard sing. But the exhaustion in his mother's eyes stopped him. She worked two jobs to keep them afloat, cleaning at the Grand View during the day and taking night shifts at a hotel near the airport.
The last thing she needed was her son chasing impossible dreams. I'll get back to work, he said quietly.
The afternoon passed in a blur of polishing, dusting, and arranging. Marcus worked in the upper balconies, cleaning the private boxes where the wealthiest patrons would sit, far above the common ticket holders. Through the windows, he could see the city stretching out below, a maze of buildings and possibilities that felt just as distant as the stage below.
As evening approached, the hall began to transform. Women in gowns that cost more than a year's rent glided through the doors, their jewelry catching the light. Men in tuxedos laughed and shook hands, their voices booming with the confidence that came from never having to worry about money. And at the center of it all stood Vincent Harrington himself.
Marcus watched from the shadows of the upper balcony as the maestro held court. Vincent Harrington was 50 years old, but carried himself like royalty. His silver hair was swept back perfectly. His tuxedo custom-tailored, and his hands, those famous hands that had played for presidents and princes, gestured expressively as he spoke.
The tragedy of modern education, Harrington's voice carried easily through the acoustically perfect hall, is that we've democratized art. We've told every child with opposable thumbs that they can be musicians. It's absurd. True musical genius is rare, inherited through bloodlines of culture and refinement.
You can't teach what must be bred. The crowd around him murmured in agreement. A woman in a diamond necklace laughed. So true, Vincent.
Just last week, my neighbor suggested her daughter could be a concert pianist. The child is 12 and has been playing for only two years. Can you imagine? I shudder to think, Harrington replied, his tone dripping with aristocratic disdain.
The piano is not a toy for the masses. It's an instrument of sophistication that requires not just technical skill, but cultural understanding, something that simply cannot exist outside certain environments. Marcus felt his jaw clench. He knew what Harrington meant, even if the maestro was too refined to say it outright.