When he walked into the apartment at 9:00 p.m., his mother took one look at his face and wrapped him in a hug. Bad, she asked. Brutal, Marcus admitted. Mama, I don't know if I can do this.
He tore apart everything I played. Made me feel like I don't know anything. Good, his mother said firmly. That means he's taking you seriously.
If he thought you were hopeless, he wouldn't bother pointing out what needs fixing. He'd just smile and tell you, You're doing great. She pulled back to look at him. Your father used to say that the hardest teachers are the ones who see potential in you, the ones who don't see potential. They're always encouraging, always positive, because it doesn't matter to them whether you improve or not.
But the teachers who push you until you want to quit, those are the ones who believe you can be more than you are. Marcus thought about that as he ate a late dinner and then settled at the kitchen table with his keyboard. He practiced the Czerny étude until his fingers felt like they might fall off. Then practiced some more.
At midnight, his mother finally made him stop and go to bed. You've got school tomorrow. She reminded him and practice at the church. After you need sleep.
As Marcus lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he thought about what Harrington had said. You don't belong. Not yet. Not yet. That meant someday maybe he could. It wasn't much, but it was enough to hold on to.
The next eight weeks were the hardest of Marcus's life. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, he took the subway to Harrington's penthouse studio. Every lesson was a battle, not against Harrington, but against his own limitations, against the gaps in his training that seemed to yawn wider the more he learned.
Week two. Harrington introduced him to his other students. This is Christina Volkov, Harrington said, gesturing to a girl of about 16 with ice blonde hair and the kind of poise that came from a lifetime of privilege. Christina's been playing since she was four.
She won the junior division of the Montreal International Competition last year. Christina, this is Marcus Williams. He's been playing for three years. Christina's eyebrows rose in obvious disdain.
Three years and he's studying with you. A temporary arrangement, Harrington said smoothly. I'm curious to see how quickly proper instruction can develop raw talent. Marcus felt like a specimen under a microscope as Christina played her piece.
A Liszt étude so technically demanding that watching her fingers was like watching someone perform surgery. She was brilliant, flawless, and she knew it. When it was Marcus's turn, he played the Bach prelude he'd been working on. He made it through without major errors, but compared to Christina's Liszt, it sounded childishly simple.