Before Mateo could respond, another man approached. James Woo, the concert promoter, had the eager energy of someone who’d just spotted a rare opportunity. “Mr. Torres, is it? I’m James Woo. I manage the Riverside Concert Series, among other venues. I would very much like to discuss the possibility of featuring you in one of our upcoming programs.” “I don’t… I’m not currently performing,” Mateo said, the words sounding absurd even as he spoke them. He’d just performed, and it had been glorious.
“Then perhaps it’s time to start again,” James said gently. “Talent like yours doesn’t come along often. It would be a crime to waste it.” The crowd around him continued to grow. People wanted to shake his hand, to tell him how moved they’d been, to apologize for their earlier assumptions. Mateo felt overwhelmed, dizzy with the sudden reversal of fortune. It was too much, too fast.
Mr. Peterson hovered at the edge of the crowd, his face pale. He’d worked at the Grand View estate for fifteen years, and in all that time, he’d never seen anything like this. He’d treated Mateo like every other server, never bothering to learn anything about him beyond whether he showed up on time and did his job adequately. Now, he was realizing that he’d had someone exceptional working for him all along, and he’d never once noticed.
Mateo’s fellow servers watched from their positions along the walls, their expressions a complex mixture of emotions. Some looked genuinely happy for him, proud that one of their own had shown up the wealthy guests who usually treated them like furniture. Others looked resentful, wondering why Mateo had hidden his talent, or why he’d been blessed with abilities they didn’t have. A few looked thoughtful, perhaps wondering what hidden depths they might have, what dreams they’d set aside to make ends meet.
The saxophonist who’d left earlier had returned to collect his things. He stood near the doorway, forgotten by everyone, watching the scene around Mateo with a professional’s appreciation. He was good at his job, skilled at providing pleasant background music, but he knew he’d never play like that. What he’d just witnessed was in a different category entirely. He felt no jealousy, only a kind of awe at getting to witness such raw talent in such an unexpected setting.
One of the guests, a middle-aged man who’d been particularly loud in his mockery before Mateo played, tried to slip out of the ballroom unnoticed, but his wife caught his arm, her expression cold. “Don’t you want to congratulate him, dear? I believe you were very interested in his performance earlier. What was it you suggested he play? ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’?” The man’s face turned red, and he mumbled something about needing fresh air before hurrying away.
Mateo accepted the congratulations and business cards with a grace he didn’t feel inside. He was a mess of conflicting emotions: relief that he’d proven himself, anger at having been put in that position in the first place, fear about what came next, joy at having played again after so long, grief for the two years he’d lost, pride in what he’d accomplished tonight. Through it all, his eyes kept drifting back to the saxophone—the beautiful horn that had been his salvation tonight.