The doctor brought them down the hall and into a soundproof room. On the walls were a violin, a cello, a guitar, an oboe, a sax, and a trumpet. The piano stood in the middle of the room. It was a Steinway, but the white keys had colored patches on them: the C’s had red, the D’s were blue, the E’s were green, and so on up the spectrum. Birenbaum said, “I also use the piano for a lot of my patients who don’t play. That’s why the keys are colored. If you can tolerate the distraction, I’m going behind the window, where I have all my equipment, and listen to you play. Don’t start until I tell you, okay?”

“Sure.”

He took Rina into a booth that looked like an engineer’s studio. Sitting on one of the chairs was a man in his sixties, bald except for a gray ponytail. He was of medium height with a round face and dark intense eyes. Birenbaum introduced him as Nicholas Mark. The man stood up and offered Rina his chair.

“I’m fine,” Rina said.

“Please, sit.”

Rina sat down. Birenbaum fiddled with a few of his controls. He talked through a microphone. “Can you hear me, Gabe?”

“Sure can.”

“The piece I usually ask pianists to play is the Fantaisie-Impromptu because most of them know it fairly well and it’s long enough to give me a good readout. There’s sheet music in the bench for that, and other pieces if you don’t want that one. If your hand hurts at any time, stop.”

“Okay.”

“The sheet music is in the bench,” he repeated.

“I know the piece.” Gabe adjusted the bench so he could comfortably operate the pedals. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and put the specs back atop his nose. His hands flew up and down the keyboard. “Nice piano.”

“You can start whenever you’re ready.”

The kid didn’t answer, just stared into space for a few moments. Then he lifted his left hand, his eyes half closed as he launched into a series of arpeggios.

Rina’s mouth dropped open.

For the next five minutes and fourteen seconds, she was transported to another world. She had attended a few classical music concerts, but not being very musical, she couldn’t even remember them. But with the boy, there was something different. Never had she heard the piano played with such technique, touch, and feeling.

When it was over, no one spoke. Nicholas Mark, the ponytailed man who was in the room, said, “Matt, ask him if he knows any of the Chopin Opus ten Etudes.”

Through the mike, Birenbaum cleared his throat. “Your finger strength is registering well. Do you know any of the Chopin Opus ten Etudes?”

“Sure.” The boy thought a moment. “How about the Liszt Transcendental Studies?”

Mark nodded. Birenbaum said, “Liszt is fine.”