The next week passed like a whirlwind. Gregoriev spun him through blinding lights: the flash of the photographer’s camera who came to do his headshots; studio lights glinting in a halo around the journalist doing his press interviews; the footlights during his practice run in the grand auditorium at the RachInst. When he lifted his fingers from the keys, to his surprise, there was a round of scattered, passionate applause. He turned and saw that a crowd had gathered at the very back of the hall – RachInst staff who’d sneaked out of work to hear him play. Even from the distant shadows, he thought he could see tears on someone’s cheek.
At night he tossed in bed and dreamed of keys again. A hundred closed doors, some black, some white. He tried the handles one by one but every one was locked. He cast about for the key but all that was in his pockets were gloves. He pulled them from his pockets over and over and threw them limply to the floor, but still more came. Soon he was drowning in gloves. Then he woke up.
Marlow got out of the cab and looked up at the front porch of the RachInst.
His heart skipped a beat.
It was bedecked in shining lights and wrought-iron framing ornate Art Deco stained glass in a hundred colours. And there – in huge white block letters: MARLOW LANGDON: IMPROMPTU. THE NEW SENSATION. A VERY LIMITED RUN OF 5 NIGHTS. BOOK ONLINE NOW!
Above, where he’d expected to see the headshot they’d done in the studio the previous week –
It was the gloves.
His hands, playing the piano. Monochrome, dramatically lit. Nothing from the elbows upward was in shot. His right little finger lifted slightly, as though about to climb to the Bb. But wearing the gloves. Not his hands at all.
Gregoriev was waiting in the foyer.
She tried to say something but he interrupted: “What happened to the picture?”
She looked surprised. “What picture?”
“Don’t mess with me. The headshot. The one you did for the poster. We spent hours over it. What gives?” He waved at the floor-to-ceiling banner behind her, at those enormous white hands.
Gregoriev turned around and then back to him, her face a picture of confusion. “I don’t understand what you mean. We talked about this. You said you’d changed your mind, that none of the headshots were suitable. To use one of the random collateral shots Dio did instead. We had to photoshop out all the studio junk.”
Marlow said, “When did this happen?”
“Last week. When we ordered all the marketing stuff. If you’ve changed your mind, it’s too late to get new ones done, you’ll have to wait for the next run.”
“When?”
“I don’t remember. It was all over email. You can look in your inbox for the timestamps. Look, Marlow, we need to get you backstage, you can’t stick around in the foyer while the audience are arriving. You need to tell me you’re happy with the hands, now. Marlow?”
He let her pull him through half-deserted corridors to the green room. His hands itched but he forced himself not to scratch. The gloves were burning in his trouser pocket, next to his phone. Had he sent that email? Could he have forgotten? No, it must be the gloves. They were conspiring against him. He had to ditch his phone. That way they couldn’t do anything without him knowing. Make sure Gregoriev didn’t do anything without express permission from him. Not written – verbal. He’d need to go cold turkey, digitally. Was there a way he could manipulate a computer without using his hands? Better to be on the safe side.
She sat him down in the chair and started going on about performance timings and etiquette. When she wasn’t looking he put the phone on the counter and pulled a towel over it, hastily, nudging the towel compulsively so every bit of the phone was covered, so he couldn’t see any bit of it.
Gregoriev was saying, “Your suit is... fine for today, but for tomorrow we’ll get you a better one. Ima knows this gent who’s just wonderful. He’ll get the grannies fawning over you. It’s good for our socials, too, if you’re dressed to impress.”
The gloves were still in his pocket. He imagined them crawling out when he wasn’t looking and climbing up his back. He had to put them on. That way he could keep an eye on them.
Gregoriev left and he quickly slipped them on. First the left, then the right. Though his palms were sweating, they slipped on easily. He stared at them. If they did anything unexpected, he’d know.
His left middle finger twitched. There! They trembled like dying spiders.
He sat on his hands and stared at them in the mirror, unblinking.
Someone came in to do make-up and dabbed foundation on his forehead, wiped the sweat away that was beading on his brow. He heard their voice as though from a long way away, “Don’t worry, Mr Langdon. Everybody gets first night nerves. Just be cool, and trust yourself to play it right.”
Then Gregoriev was back and spinning his chair around, saying: “Showtime.”
He stood. He looked at his hands. The blood had drained from them by him sitting on them. No, wait, that was the gloves. White silk.
Before he knew it they were right behind the stage door, which was black.
“Break a leg,” said Gregoriev, and opened the door and pushed him through.
He stumbled into the light and the auditorium lit up with applause, from the stalls below to the circle far, far above.
The stage was clear and clean, made of some modern, light wood with some kind of coating that both muffled and clarified the sound of his footsteps as he crossed towards the piano. The space was bright with sound; every cubic centimetre was crammed with it. The acoustics of this hall were legendary. He’d read before about all the things they’d done to improve the way music traversed the space; from the shape of the roof to the very material the seats were made of. Not like the latter was evident. Every seat he could see was full.
The piano waited. Though Marlow had practised in here every day for the last week, knew the instrument now like a beloved friend, or an old colleague, it loomed taller and darker than before in the presence of an audience. It was huge, the size of a car, not like Marlow had a car, but it gave off a similar sort of gleaming, hi-tech threat, like you were only allowed to use it because it had temporarily decided you were worthy, and could just as quickly turn against you. It was a Steinway, but not the kind you could find in a showroom; it was bespoke, a gift from the manufacturer to some important keyboardist of the mid-twentieth century, Marlow forgot which one, who’d bequeathed it to the Institute shortly before being assassinated by the KGB. The keys felt heavy and stiff to play, so you had to press each key deliberately and with as much strength as you could. It reminded Marlow of the story of Odysseus returning to Ithaca and being the only one strong enough to string his bow.
Marlow reached the stool and sat down.
The applause died down and was replaced with a taut expectation.
Here goes nothing.
Marlow placed his hands upon the keyboard —
— and he was alone.
The audience was gone. So was the auditorium. It was just him, and the Steinway, in the basement at the Crown and Ha’penny, alone. His hands were still poised above the keyboard, but they were just his hands again. No gloves.
Someone had left the radio on in the kitchen and a tune drifted through on the air, weaved its way around the lid of the piano, made the strings shiver in sympathy.
Marlow, my friend, it looks like you’re beginning to have second thoughts about this little project of ours.
Marlow put his hands in his lap.
Project?
Yes. You were meant to become the greatest pianist the world has ever seen. But you don’t seem to appreciate how far we’ve already come. How far I’ve gotten you.
I left my band. My friends. For this.
They were holding you back. All you need is me. Think what we could do together. I’ve given you a great gift here, Marlow, and a great opportunity. Don’t you want greatness?
I do. I think. I don’t even know what greatness is.
Then I’ll show you. Embrace the gloves. They are your path to immortality.
Marlow looked again at the keyboard. The gloves were lying on it, crossed, palms upwards.
He thought, you know what, they’re right.
I owe them. They’ve given me the greatest break of my life. Here I am, playing the RachInst in front of a sellout crowd!
At the thought of the crowd, his heart went to his mouth. He imagined returning to the auditorium and ripping the gloves off, trying to play on his own. It would be excruciating. He’d be a laughing stock. But with the gloves? They’d be talking about that night for years to come.
He remembered dimly there was something that had happened that he blamed the gloves for. But when he came to think about it, he couldn’t remember for the life of him what it was. First-night nerves, probably.
And even if the gloves were too good to be true – well, how bad could it really be? They were just a pair of gloves, for goodness’ sake.
Whatever price I have to pay, I’ll pay it.
Marlow slipped the gloves on and
was back in the auditorium, and the crowd went wild.