This was the end-of-year showcase, the chance to demonstrate growth. But Marcus noticed something. They were all playing it safe within their ambition, choosing pieces that stretched them but didn't risk complete failure. Marcus had chosen a piece that could very easily end in disaster.
When his turn came, he walked onto the stage with his heart pounding, but his head clear. He'd practiced the Liszt until his fingers had blisters, until he could play it in his sleep, until every note was muscle memory. He began the Beethoven and played it with power and passion, honoring the Pathétique name and playing the pathos, the drama, the revolutionary spirit of Beethoven's innovation. The Ravel he performed with delicate beauty, understanding the piece's memorial nature, a pavane for a dead princess, music of elegant sorrow.
Then came the Liszt. Marcus launched into the Hungarian Rhapsody with everything he had. The opening slow section, the Lassan, he played with appropriate weight and drama, setting up the contrast. Then came the Friska, the fast section, and Marcus unleashed.
His fingers flew across the keyboard, the rapid passages, the thundering octaves, the climactic runs. There were moments when he wasn't entirely sure he'd make it. His hands were moving so fast he couldn't consciously control each note. He had to trust the practice, trust the preparation.
The final climax approached, the section where many performers failed, where the octaves came so fast and furious that hands could seize up from tension. Marcus pushed through, his arms feeling like rubber, his fingers screaming in protest. And then the final crashing chords. He lifted his hands from the keys, breathing hard, and looked up.
The audience was on its feet, every single person. The applause was thunderous, genuine, shocked. Even Harrington was standing, a rare smile on his face. Marcus had done it.
Not perfectly. He'd made small errors that he knew about, places where the octaves weren't quite clean or the rhythm slightly rushed. But he'd done it. He'd taken on a piece that should have been beyond him and made it work.
As he walked off stage, Harrington met him in the wings. One year ago, the maestro said quietly, you were a self-taught kid playing on a broken keyboard. Tonight, you performed Liszt at a level that many conservatory students never reach. Do you understand what you've accomplished? Marcus nodded, unable to speak through the emotion.
Your 2-year commitment ends next year, Harrington continued. But I don't think we're done. Not by a long shot. If you're willing to continue, I'd like to keep teaching you.
Not as a charity project. Not as an experiment. As a serious artist with real potential. Yes, Marcus managed.
Yes, I want that. Good. Because next year we're going for competition wins, real ones. And then Harrington smiled. Then we start talking about your future career.