Around them. The audience sat frozen, not knowing how to react. Then slowly someone began to clap. Just one person from somewhere in the back.
Then another, then another. Within seconds, the entire hall was applauding. Not the polite golf clap of society events, but genuine surprised applause. Harrington's jaw tightened.
Luck, he said quietly, but his voice carried. You memorized one piece. Let's see how you do with something you don't know. He sat back down at the piano, his movements sharp now, aggressive.
Let's try something a bit more challenging, shall we? His fingers crashed down on the keys. And suddenly he was playing Chopin's Revolutionary Étude, a piece known for its technical difficulty, its rapid left-hand passages, its demands for both speed and precision. It was a piece that took advanced students years to master.
Harrington played it furiously, almost violently, his hands moving so fast they blurred. He wasn't just playing anymore. He was making a statement. This is what real skill looks like.
This is the difference between us. Know your place. When he finished breathing slightly hard, he stood and gestured to the bench. After you.
Marcus stood frozen. He'd heard the Revolutionary Étude before, of course. He'd studied recordings of it, had even attempted it on his keyboard at home. But this was different.
This was sight reading at the professional level, expected to replicate a piece that pianists spent months perfecting and doing it in front of an audience that was now watching him like vultures waiting for a meal. What's wrong? Harrington asked, his voice carrying across the silent hall.
Suddenly, not so confident. It's okay to admit you're out of your depth. No shame in knowing your limits. Marcus looked at his mother in the wings.
She was crying silently, her hand pressed to her mouth. He could walk away now. He could admit defeat, leave the stage, and things would go back to normal. He'd remain invisible and his mother wouldn't have to watch her son be destroyed.
But then he saw something else in her face. Behind the tears, behind the fear, there was hope. She didn't think he'd succeed, but she hoped he would. I'll play, Marcus said.
He sat at the piano once more. This time, he adjusted the bench, bringing it down to a height that worked better for him. If he was going to fail, he'd fail on his own terms. Marcus placed his hands on the keys and began to play.