People like Marcus, poor, black, from the wrong side of the city, weren't supposed to understand classical music. They weren't supposed to feel it in their bones to hear the conversations between Bach and Beethoven across centuries to understand the mathematical precision of a perfect fugue. Young man, you shouldn't be here. Marcus spun around to find an elderly security guard looking at him with kind eyes.
The gala is starting soon. Staff needs to be in their designated areas. Yes, sir. I was just finishing the boxes.
I know what you were doing, the guard said, not unkindly. I've seen you watching the stage. You play. Marcus hesitated, then nodded.
A little. I am mostly self-taught. And Mrs. Chen gives me lessons sometimes. Mary Chen, the old piano teacher from Chinatown.
The guard smiled. She's a good woman. Tough but fair. If she's teaching you, you must have some talent. I try, Marcus said softly. Listen, kid. Marcus, right? At Marcus's nod, he continued.
I've worked here for thirty years. Seen a lot of young people with dreams walk through these doors. Some of them make it, most don't. But the ones who do, they all have one thing in common.
They don't give up. No matter who tells them they don't belong. You remember that? Before Marcus could respond, a commotion erupted from the stage area.
Raised voices echoed through the hall and Marcus and the guard hurried to the balcony railing to see what was happening. This is absolutely unacceptable. Harrington's voice had lost its cultured smoothness, replaced by raw anger. Where is Stefan?
The performance begins in 30 minutes. Gerald Hastings rushed onto the stage, his face pale. Mr. Harrington, I've just received word. Mr. Kozlov is stuck in traffic from the airport.
There was an accident on the highway. He's not going to make it. The crowd gasped. Stefan Kozlov was supposed to be Harrington's dueling partner for the evening centerpiece, a dramatic performance where two pianists engaged in a musical battle, each trying to outplay the other in increasingly complex pieces.
It was the gala's main attraction, the reason tickets cost $5,000 each. Then get me another pianist. Harrington snapped. Surely among these music lovers, someone can adequately play a few simple pieces.
An uncomfortable silence filled the hall. These were people who paid to watch music, not people who could create it. Finally, a man in the front row stood up. Richard Peyton, a hedge fund manager whose face Marcus recognized from the society pages his mother sometimes left lying around their apartment.