By the tenth night the queue for Live At The C&H stretched out of the door and halfway around the block.
“This is unreal,” said Nasser. “Like, really wild. How are they all finding us?”
“Someone put Marlow on TikTok,” said Oliver, and showed them all his phone. It was a thirty-second clip of them doing the bridge from Johnny B. Goode a few nights before. The piano scintillated. It zipped from ragtime to free jazz to something that sounded a little like Bach. Marlow listened with as much interest as if it was the first time he’d ever heard it, because, well, it was.
“Ian’s delighted,” said Will. Ian was the owner and head bartender. “He says we should expand our repertoire to put more emphasis on the keys. Maybe something without any singing at all.”
Benny looked hurt. But before he could say anything Nasser said, “We’re not changing the repertoire. Or at least, not because suddenly the internet’s decided we have to.”
“We should play what the audience wants to hear,” said Oliver.
“Yeah, and the audience want Chuck Berry, not, I dunno, some kind of experimental artistic instrumental track.”
Marlow thought: Coward. Then blinked. It didn’t sound like the kind of word he’d say. He wondered where the thought had come from.
Kim said, “Nasser’s right, it’s important we play songs you can sing along to, that’s our MO. If we want to branch out a bit we can jam a bit tomorrow and see what we come up with. Plus, if the piano gets all the solos, there won’t be anything for the brass to do.”
Will and Oliver exchanged looks at that. Kim looked at Marlow pointedly. “Are you on board with that? Marlow?”
Marlow swallowed, nodded, said quietly, “Yes, let’s do that.”
They came out onto the little stage and the crowd cheered themselves hoarse. They were crammed in elbow-to-elbow, holding beers, all the chairs piled away to make room. Marlow watched a redheaded woman near the front fumble desperately to put her phone on camera mode, grinning all the time. Others were already filming.
He settled into the seat. The others played a few notes on their instruments, to check the sound, but he didn’t so much as touch the keys. He knew exactly what to do.
He felt a rush from tip to toe, felt more certain than he’d been for months – this was where he was meant to be, this was where he belonged. Somewhere in the back of his mind there was a knot of stress – something he was meant to be anxious or sad about. He realised that if he chose he could just let it go. Untie the knot and watch it float away, never to be seen again. Why hang on to things that weigh you down? This made him happy. Playing before an audience made him happy. The audience knew what was right.
They might be listening to the band, but they were all here for him.
He smiled. Kim counted them in and they began to play.
Afterwards Kim and Nasser took him to one side, into the grimy corridor by the kitchen with gig posters plastering the walls.
“What is it?” said Marlow.
Nasser started, “You did it aga-”
Kim interrupted. “Let me do it.” Nasser grunted, but shut up.
Kim turned to Marlow. “Look,” she said, “I appreciate you’re expressing yourself, trying new things, musically, I mean. And nobody is more happy than me about the impact you’ve had on the band. Honestly.”
They don’t think I’m up to it, thought Marlow. They want me out because I’m making them look bad. They think just because I did something different to what they were expecting that I lack the ability to play their way. That I can’t keep up. Can’t they see I’m doing this deliberately? That I’ve surpassed their level? Why won’t they just follow me a bit more closely? If they did they’d see what we could really become.
Kim had been talking the whole time and now she and Nasser were looking at him expectantly.
“You’re firing me,” he said.
Kim said, “No,” just as Nasser said, “Yes, we’re firing you. You’re impossible to work with. I thought I knew you, man, but I totally had it wrong. We’re not Marlow Langdon’s House Band. We’re a collective, for God’s sake. We can’t all be bending over backwards to follow whatever you fancy doing today. We gotta work as a team. If someone can’t do that, they can’t be on the team.”
Kim said, “I’m sorry,” and sounded like she meant it.
Marlow thought, I’m a finer musician than any of you. You’re all bar-basement Lady Gaga covers. I’m the only one here who is doing something new, something special. You go on about teamwork but that’s just code for wanting everybody to toe the line. So what if I won’t toe the line? I’m an artist. Artists don’t get anywhere by toeing the line. The line is so far behind me I can’t even see it any more.
But all he said was, “I guess this is it, then.”
Nasser said, “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
Marlow said, “I’ll get my stuff.”
Kim said, “Look, Marlow, stay in touch, won’t you?” He was already walking away.
He came out of the club into the mild evening air. It had gotten dark while they’d been playing, and the street was empty; the streetlights shone dully on the road, the parked cars, the closed-up shopfronts. It all looked absurdly normal, pedestrian, like nothing that had happened to him in the last two weeks had happened at all and he was back where he’d started.
He put his hands in his pockets and felt the gloves there, scrunched up.
He thought, This isn’t what I agreed to.
“Marlow? Hello.” A voice behind him – a woman’s voice. He turned. It was the redhead who’d been in the front row, smiling up at him. She had been leaning against the doorpost, waiting for him. “I hope you don’t mind. My name’s Sally Gregoriev, I work at the Rachmaninoff Institute. Do you have a few minutes?”
He blinked, took his hands out of his pockets. For some reason he was certain he did not want her to see the gloves. “Of course.”
“It was wonderful to hear you play just now. You have a real gift. Usually we are good at spotting new talent in the schools, at a younger age, but you seem to have slipped through our net.” She beamed, revealing Hollywood-perfect teeth. “And playing with a band like your friends there.” She gestured at the Charismatic Megafauna posters. “Quite unexpected.”
“Not any more,” he said, not thinking, and then realising he didn’t care. “They fired me. I quit.”
She blinked. “Well, I’m very sorry to hear that. But that might make you all the more interested in what I’m about to offer.”
She paused for dramatic effect. He stared at her, arms crossed, not interested in playing games. After a beat she smiled again and reached into her bag.
“We’d like to offer you a residency at the Institute. Matinee recitals, every day for a fortnight. Lots of publicity, lots of fanfare. Your solo debut. We’re good at marketing, and you’re already making waves online. I can guarantee it’ll sell out.”
“What would I have to play?” he asked.
“Heck, who cares? Play whatever you want. Improvise. Something different every night. We don’t care. We can bill it as a mystery showcase, sort of an art piece. With a talent like yours, people will come whatever you play.”
He’d never set foot inside the RachInst before. He’d walked past many a time and shielded his eyes from the glare of all those world-class pianists on the billboards, playing Grieg and Shostakovich. He realised now he’d been afraid that by facing up to them it would be obvious to everybody how much he lacked.
Well, with the gloves, he was the equal of any of them.
He nodded and said, “I’ll do it.”
She beamed again. “That’s fantastic, really fantastic.” She fumbled around in her handbag and pulled out a business card. “I really can’t wait to work with you, Marlow.”