People nearby turned to watch. "How old are you?"
"Sixteen."
"Sixteen." She stood, walked around the piano toward him, her heels clicking on the stage floor like a countdown. And you're correcting me about tuning when you can't even see what you're doing? I wasn't correcting, ma'am. I was just "Where did you study?"
"I didn’t. I learned by—"
"Of course you did not." She stopped close enough for him to smell her expensive perfume. "Let me guess. You play by ear. You taught yourself. You think that makes you special?" Someone in the gathering crowd—students, faculty, donors—giggled. Others shifted uncomfortably, but no one spoke up.
"Come," Victoria said more loudly, performing for the audience. "Sit. Play something. Let us see what self-taught looks like. Where are you from?"
"The East Side, ma’am."
"the East Side." She repeated it like the words tasted bad. Of course. Well, let's see what the East Side produces. "Sit."
"I really don’t think—"
"I insist." Her voice hardened. Consider it a learning opportunity. You want to understand tuning? You need to understand playing, real playing, not whatever you do in your spare time. The crowd was bigger now. Thirty people, then forty, all watching, all waiting.
The energy shifting from uncomfortable to curious, from embarrassed to entertained. Yale's throat tightened. His hands went cold. But he crossed to the bench, set his cane against it, sat down. The keys under his fingers, warm from her hands, familiar from tuning, foreign for playing.
Not here, not in front of these people, not as entertainment for their judgment. He found middle C, placed his hands in position, started something simple, Mozart, sonata in C major, the opening phrase, clean, basic, something to satisfy her curiosity, and then stop. Ten seconds. She had given him ten seconds. Can you even find middle C without seeing it?
Without sheet music to guide you?