Chapter 8: Keep It Simple
After Celeste left, the waiting room settled again, but Althea could not settle with it. The sound of Celeste's playing still hung in her ears, bright and exact. Althea pressed her palms together in her lap until the trembling in her fingers quieted.
Nolan stayed nearby, turning the pages of a paperback he was not really reading. Every now and then he looked up and smiled at her, a small, ordinary smile. He did not offer advice, which would have been useless. He simply stayed, and that was enough to keep the room from closing in on her.
More names were called. Each time the door opened, Althea's stomach tightened. Each time it was not her name, she felt both relief and a fresh wave of dread, because the waiting was its own kind of test.
At last, Mrs. Feldman herself appeared at the door, holding a clipboard. She looked down the row of chairs, found Althea, and nodded once.
"Althea Moss," she said. "Number fourteen. This way, please."
Althea stood. Her legs felt strange, as if they belonged to someone else, but they carried her. She picked up her folder, nodded to Nolan, and followed Mrs. Feldman down the corridor. The carpet underfoot was thick enough to swallow sound, and her shoes made no noise at all now.
Mrs. Feldman stopped at a tall door and knocked twice, softly. A voice from inside said, "Come in." Mrs. Feldman opened the door and gestured Althea through, then closed it behind her with a quiet click that sounded, to Althea, very final.
The recital hall was larger than she had imagined. High windows let in pale spring light. Rows of empty chairs faced a stage, and on the stage stood a black grand piano, its lid raised like a wing. Althea had never played an instrument like it. The church upright at home had chipped keys and a pedal that stuck in damp weather.
At a long table in front of the stage sat three judges. In the centre sat an older man with silver hair and a dark suit, his hands folded, his expression grave. That, she felt certain, was Dr. Cornelius Ashford, head of the piano faculty. To his left sat a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and a pencil in her hand. To his right sat a younger man with a dry, watchful face.
"Miss Moss," Dr. Ashford said. His voice was not unkind, but it was measured, the voice of a man accustomed to being listened to. "Please, sit. Tell us what you have prepared."
Althea walked to the piano, set her folder on the music stand, opened it to the simple piece she had chosen, and sat on the bench. The bench was higher than the one at church, and she adjusted it carefully, hoping no one noticed how her hands shook.
Before she could touch the keys, Dr. Ashford spoke again, leaning forward slightly.
"Miss Moss," he said, "I have read your application. You are largely self-taught. That is not a criticism. It is a fact, and facts must be respected. But this faculty values restraint. We value clean technique, honest tone, and music that does not reach beyond its means."
He paused. Althea looked up at him, and saw in his face not cruelty but a kind of tired certainty, as if he had given this speech many times and believed every word of it.
"So I will say this plainly, for your own good," he continued. "Keep it simple. Play something simple, and play it well. Do not attempt to impress us. Do not embarrass yourself by reaching for more than you can hold."
The words landed in the quiet hall like stones dropped into still water. Althea felt her face grow warm. She thought of the piece she had brought, the one she had grown from her mother's hymn, with all its layers of gospel and jazz and longing. She thought of Wendell telling her to play the truth of the melody. She thought of her grandmother hemming her dress.
She nodded. It was the only safe answer, and she gave it with her eyes lowered, because she did not trust her face to hide what she felt.
"Yes, sir," she said. "I understand."
"Good," Dr. Ashford said, and sat back. The woman to his left, Professor Adler, Althea guessed, gave her a small, encouraging nod. The younger man made a note on his paper.
Althea placed her hands on the keys. They were cool and smooth, and for a moment she simply felt them, the way a swimmer feels water before diving in. She took a breath. She had been told to keep it simple, and she would obey. She would play the simple piece, exactly as instructed, and she would play it well. But beneath her obedience, quiet and stubborn as a root under pavement, something else was waiting: the music she had carried since childhood, patient, unembarrassed, and entirely her own.