He was prodigious in a way that few understood. David,” Vincent insisted now clearly losing patience. “Are you going to play or not? Because I can guarantee that no one here has all night for your existential musings.” “Actually,” David replied, adjusting his position on the bench, I’d like to make a small change to the proposal.
“Instead of Partita number two, how about something more educational for the audience?” Vincent laughed contemptuously. “Educational kid? You’re talking to people who fund entire conservatories. What exactly could you teach us? David turned slightly toward the audience, his blind eyes seeming to see through the social masks everyone wore.
How about demonstrating the difference between playing notes correctly and playing music? A murmur ran through the audience. Some guests exchanged puzzled glances while others seemed offended by the implication. How dare he? Patricia Wells muttered to her assistant as if someone like him could distinguish between superior technique and whatever he thinks he can do.
Vincent felt himself losing control of the situation. This kid was clearly trying to manipulate the audience, create some kind of dramatic moment. It was time to end this charade once and for all. Very well, Vincent said, walking over to the piano. Since you want to give a lesson, I’ll demonstrate first how the parta should be played by someone who has actually studied music.
David stepped away from the bench, allowing Vincent to sit down. What the famous pianist didn’t notice was the almost imperceptible smile that crossed the boy’s face, not one of nervousness, but of someone who had just put his opponent exactly where he wanted him. Vincent began to play with his usual technical precision.
Every note was in the right place, every beat perfectly measured. It was an impressive display of musical skill developed over decades of formal training. As Vincent played, David closed his eyes and did something he had learned years ago. He memorized not just the notes, but every nuance of the interpretation, every stylistic choice, every micro pause.
In his mind, he was photographing the entire performance, cataloging every element he could use against his opponent. Deborah watched her nephew with a mixture of pride and apprehension. She knew that concentration. It was the same one David displayed when he spent hours studying recordings of masters long dead, analyzing their interpretations like a detective examining evidence. Dr.
Webb, sitting in the third row, also noticed something different about the boy’s posture. There was a quietness about him that reminded him of the great performers before career-defining performances. A calmness that came not from resignation, but from absolute preparation. Vincent finished the parta with a dramatic flourish, clearly pleased with himself.
