Free The Soloist by Mark Salzman Page B

assumed it would be explained more carefully later on in the trial.
    “Yeah, I hope so,” he muttered. “Maybe they’ll have a demonstration and get some guy to walk on coals or something!” He laughed again at his own comment.
    I remembered from his voir dire that Gary was in his forties, but he looked twenty years older, probably from working in the sun. It was hard to believe we were so close in age. He had a round, protruding belly over skinny legs and a completely flat behind. I noticed this only because he was always tugging at his pants, as if he was used to having to keep pulling them up. He asked if I followed sports at all.
    When I answered that I didn’t, he told me that, the night before, the Dodgers had suffered an embarrassing defeat.
    “Against a shitty team, too,” he complained. “It doesn’t make sense, you know? A great team plays a shitty team, there shouldn’t be any question. But when you get a shitty team against a good team, it rubs off and everybody plays shitty.”
    Relieved that he had at least changed the subject, I said that the same thing often happens in music. You can hire a terrific performer, but make him play with a weak orchestra and you’d be surprised how badly he’ll play sometimes.
    “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “You know, my parents made me take piano when I was a kid for a few weeks. Man! Did I hate that—I made ’em let me quit. But now I have a kid, and my wife wants to make him take piano lessons. You’re into music—what do you think? Should kids take piano because it’s good for ’em, or do you think it’s a waste of time if they don’t seem interested? I mean, my kid’s not begging for piano lessons.”
    I don’t think anyone knows the answer to this question, so I said that it depended on the child; some seem to get a lot out of music lessons, some don’t. You can’t tell until they’ve tried it.
    Maria-Teresa was standing close enough to overhear our conversation. She drifted over and commented that her mother, who had always liked the sound of the accordion, made her take lessons on it for nearly a year. The lessons ended when the family acquired a new puppy who chewed the accordion apart and buried the biggest pieces in the backyard. “My mother had a fit.” Maria-Teresa laughed. “But I snuck him treats for a month after that. I hated that accordion.” She had a beautiful smile.
    “Do you ever wish you’d stuck with it, though?” I asked her.
    She looked at me suspiciously and asked, “Have you heard an accordion lately?” That was her answer; then she excused herself to go outside for a cigarette. I laughed, but she’d already left. It took me a few seconds to realize she was being humorous.
    Maria-Teresa’s story reminded me of the night Wolfgang Bruggen, one of Germany’s most influential financiers and statesmen after the war, made my mother and me the guests of honor at one of his elaborate dinner parties. As usual I felt uncomfortable through most of the dinner; the other guests and even my distinguished host seemed uncertain whether to speak to me as a child or as an adult, and in such august company I hardly dared initiate conversation on my own. Eventually, as almost always happened at those events, the group settled into eulogizing me rather than speaking with me.
    To make matters worse, Herr Bruggen’s eighteen-year-old son (I was fifteen) sat next to me with a pinched expression on his face, and avoided even looking at me. Just before the dessert course, Herr Bruggen brought all conversation to a halt with a wave of his hand, gestured in my direction and announced, “I would like you all to consider this: six hours a day, practically since the day he was born! And he never once had to be told to practice. Think of what each of us could have done with that kind of spirit! Think of it!” Having said this, he glanced pointedly at his son, then invited us to try the caramel custard.
    After dinner, as the adults shifted over