Mrs. Chen worked with him on the Mozart, helping him understand the classical period style and phrasing. His mother listened to him play the WC so many times, she started humming it while doing dishes.
The night of the concert arrived. The venue was a small recital hall in the Manhattan School of Music. Intimate, elegant, with excellent acoustics. The audience was exactly who Harrington had promised.
Music professionals, wealthy patrons, a few journalists, and of course, cameras. Marcus watched from backstage as Christina performed first. She played Rachmaninoff's Moments musicaux No. 4 with stunning technical precision, her fingers flying across the keys in the virtuosic passages. The audience applauded enthusiastically.
Then came David Chen, no relation to Mrs. Chen, who played Beethoven's Appassionata Sonata with serious focused intensity. More applause. Then Elizabeth Martinez performing Schumann's Carnaval with romantic flare and impressive stamina. The piece lasted nearly half an hour.
Finally, Marcus's turn. He walked onto the stage acutely aware of his slightly too short pants. He'd grown two inches in the past six weeks, his shoes that weren't quite formal enough, his presence as the only black performer on the program. He sat at the piano and took a breath.
Then he began to play Mozart. The Sonata Facilee wasn't the flashiest piece on the program, but Marcus played it with clean, precise articulation, honoring the classical period's elegance while adding subtle interpretive choices that made it his own. He let the music breathe, giving space to the phrases, allowing Mozart's genius to speak without unnecessary ornamentation. When he finished the first piece, the applause was polite, appreciative, good, but not overwhelming.
Then he played Debussy's Clair de Lune. This was his moment to show what he'd learned about tone and color and atmosphere. The piece required delicate touch, careful pedaling, and an understanding of impressionistic harmony that was very different from the classical clarity of Mozart. Marcus poured himself into it, remembering the moonlight through his bedroom window on nights when he couldn't sleep, remembering the strange beauty of the city at 3:00 a.m. When the streets were quiet than anything felt possible.
The final notes faded into silence, and this time the applause was warmer, more genuine. He'd connected with the audience. Now for the risky part. My final piece is Maple Leaf Rag by Scott Joplin, Marcus announced, his voice steady despite his nerves.
A murmur ran through the crowd. This was unexpected, unconventional. He could see Harrington in the front row, his expression unreadable.
Marcus began to play, and immediately the energy in the room changed. Ragtime was different from anything that had been played that evening. Syncopated, rhythmic, joyful. It required precision in the stride bass and perfect synchronization between the hands.
But it also required something else. Swing, soul, and understanding of African-American musical tradition. Marcus played it the way Joplin had intended, not rushed, not treated like a novelty, but with the same respect and artistry he'd given to Mozart and Debussy. He played it like it belonged on this stage in this hall as part of this tradition.