One

I played the final note of the sonata, letting the sound ring for an eternity.

My teacher, Mr. Jorgensen, laughed and said, “Again.”

“What was wrong?”

“Nothing. It was perfect. Well, not perfect. It’s music, so it can never be perfect. Perfect in music means those little robots who play every note for exactly the right length of time and with absolutely no feeling whatsoever. No, that was quintessential, William. That was…stunning. Play it again!”

“There’s nothing I could do better?”

Mr. Jorgensen’s fist flew to his lips as he began hacking, almost doubling over. He held a hand up as we waited for the attack to end. “Nothing,” he said. “Except doing it again. Entirely for my amusement.”

I placed my violin back in its spot. Set my chin on the rest. The rough, worn skin there burned a little.

And I played.

The piece was Bach’s Sonata No. 1 in G Minor—Presto. It’s written for solo violin, and it moves so quickly that it proves practicing scales is never a waste of time. Run after run, your fingers need to fly to make it sound right. It’s the kind of piece where, once you’re done, people might marvel at how you were able to memorize all the notes, never mind play them. But for me, it was a fairly boring, straightforward piece that lacked any real personality.

And yet I loved it, simply because there was nothing I enjoyed more than playing violin. Nothing in my life came even close to the feeling of my fingers on the strings and the sound of the notes stretching out above me.

I guess you could refer to what Mr. Jorgensen and I did as lessons, but it never really felt that way. He took me on as a student just after I had my fifth birthday. I’ve been told it began when I heard music coming from his apartment, which is next to my family’s. Apparently, I refused to leave his door until my mother knocked and asked what the music was.

That was ten years ago.

I didn’t start playing right away. At first, my parents just needed someone to watch me after school, and Mr. Jorgensen agreed to be my babysitter as long as we only listened to music—None of that garbage television stuff, as he put it. He said I needed to be well versed in all types of music first, and if I still felt a passion for violin, then it was meant to be.

Even though Mr. Jorgensen had been the conductor of a number of orchestras, we listened to everything from Gregorian chants (weird) to Miley Cyrus (seriously? This is music?). We covered soul, country, rock, reggae—even electronic. Always circling back to classical. Once I was certain I didn’t want to play the trumpet, or twist knobs on a keyboard, or sing a Justin Bieber song in front of a TV audience, we settled down with the violin.

First the easy pieces, starting with “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” and “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” Mr. Jorgensen would never allow me to move on to another piece until I “felt each and every note.” Which, honestly, sounds ridiculous for a song like “The Happy Farmer.”

But he was right.

Until I truly felt each note coming out of me, I didn’t really enjoy playing. I mean, I liked it. But there were times when I was just playing the notes to get through the song.

Mr. Jorgensen would never stand for this. And somehow he always knew.

I’ve never had another teacher. Never played for anyone but Mr. Jorgensen and my parents. But for the past ten years, I have spent a minimum of two hours a day focusing on getting better and learning more about the violin.

“And around, yes, Will, yes, now to the end!” Eyes closed, hands together, Mr. Jorgensen seemed more lost in the moment than I was.

I kept playing, feeling the music seep out of me.

“Perfect, perfect,” he said. Laughing and clapping his hands as though I were playing some East Coast foot-stomper and not a serious, solo Bach piece.

Bach has never been my favorite, which was why Mr. Jorgensen had me playing this. He said that if I could play a piece I didn’t enjoy, imagine what I would be able to do with the ones I loved.

Such as Paganini’s Caprice No. 24 in A Minor.

The first time I heard that piece, I thought my head was going to explode. It’s everything at once: motion and energy and power. Playing it is like riding a brakeless bicycle down a winding hill. Like being entirely outside of your body and only coming back to the ground when it’s over.

Mr. Jorgensen turned in his chair as I was finishing and yelled, “Is that enough for you, Alisha?”

I froze, letting a muddle of notes crash to the floor.

“Alisha?” I said.

Which was when Mr. Jorgensen’s daughter stepped out of the kitchen and my entire life changed.

“You were right, Dad,” Alisha said.

Alisha hadn’t heard me play before, but I’d seen her at Mr. Jorgensen’s apartment a few times. She’s tall and blond and wears a lot of rings and bracelets. She’s my parents’ age, I guess. I’ve heard a lot from Mr. Jorgensen about how she’s never given him grandchildren. It’s always left me wondering if I’m a substitute grandson for him.

“That isn’t even his best piece,” Mr. Jorgensen told her. “Far from it.”

“How old are you?” Alisha asked me.

“Fifteen?” I said. Like I didn’t know the answer.

“Fifteen, Dad? Fifteen! Why didn’t you…”

Mr. Jorgensen pulled himself up in his chair. He tended to sink down in it as I played. “He needed to reach a certain level. I told you this.”

“But that piece is well beyond his years. I’ve never heard—”

“He has more difficult ones in his repertoire. But that one. That one,” he said, then collapsed into another coughing fit. “That one is stunning.”

“You don’t say.” She put a hand to her chin and stared at me the way people stare at paintings in the National Gallery.

“The thing is, he hates it.” Mr. Jorgensen looked at me. “Don’t you, Will?”

I was too busy trying not to be freaked out by Alisha staring at me to respond. “It’s not my favorite,” I finally managed.

“Have you ever been to the nac?” Alisha asked. I didn’t answer right away, so she said, “The National Arts Centre. Right here in Ottawa.”

“Once,” I said. “To see James Ehnes.”

Her face brightened. “Do you like James?”

“Yes,” I said, though not with the enthusiasm I felt. James Ehnes is absolutely the greatest living violinist. He may be the greatest violinist ever, but that’s impossible to say because you can’t actually see the dead ones play live. Sure, there are recordings of live performances, but they aren’t even close to the actual performances.

You need to be in the room watching and listening to understand.

“He’s very nice,” Alisha said. “And very good.”

“Exquisite,” Mr. Jorgensen said. “James feels every note. Just like Will here. He inhales the music, then releases it as if it has never been played before.”

“He was at Meadowmount at your age,” Alisha said. She seemed to be talking to herself. Her rings shone in the late-afternoon light seeping through the bay window.

“So,” Mr. Jorgensen asked. “You’ll be accepting him to your school, of course.”

“I’ll need his parents to fill out the registration forms. And I’ll need a recording. But when the others hear this…”

Mr. Jorgensen stood and did something on his laptop. “I recorded today,” he said. “You’ll have to edit it. Don’t use the last one—I might have talked a little during it.”

“You think?” Alisha said, shaking her head at her father before looking to me. “Is that okay?”

“Is what okay?” I had no idea what was going on. It was just a Tuesday practice at the beginning of summer vacation. I had been with Mr. Jorgensen all day. We had walked around the park by the canal in the morning, fed the ducks, had a hot dog and Fanta for lunch, and been practicing in his apartment ever since.

“He didn’t tell you?” Alisha said.

“I didn’t want to frighten him,” Mr. Jorgensen replied.

“Dad! You told me we were just doing a blind audition.”

Mr. Jorgensen waved her concerns away again. “So blind he didn’t even know you were in the apartment. It was the only way, Alisha.”

It seemed as if she was about to scold her father again, but instead she turned back to me. “I’m sorry about that. I would never have listened in without your permission.”

“That’s okay,” I said, though it felt strange. I didn’t know whether to be angry or embarrassed, especially since I didn’t feel I’d been playing all that well.

“I coordinate the Young Musicians program at the university. It’s a two-week summer workshop for the very best young musicians in Canada. You work with our professionals on your instrument. You practice two or three hours a day, and you take seminars, master classes and private lessons. Does that sound like fun?”

“I guess.” I wasn’t even certain what all those things were. Seminars? Master classes? Practicing two or three hours a day was something I already did, so that didn’t faze me.

Alisha laughed. “He guesses. Dad, where have you been keeping this kid?”

“Under a rock and away from you people just long enough that he knows what he knows and no one will be able to ruin it.”

“We don’t ruin anything, Dad.” She crossed the room to stand before me.

“Sure you don’t,” Mr. Jorgensen said. “You prepare them.”

“This could be quite the big step for you,” she said, ignoring him. “There will be representatives there from a number of universities, and from The Juilliard School for the performing arts.”

“Okay.”

“James Ehnes went to Juilliard. He says it’s where he truly began to understand his instrument. Do you think you’re ready?”

“I guess.”

Mr. Jorgensen stood and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Will. This is your shot. You impress those people and you’ve written your ticket. You will perform all over the world. These are the gatekeepers.”

“Not quite, Dad,” Alisha said.

“As close as it gets,” he said. “Without some kind of backing, you’ll become a brilliant unknown.”

Alisha turned to me. “Would you like to work with us, Will?” she asked. “Would you like to come to the summer program and play violin every day with some of the best musicians in the country? Would you like to take the next step toward a career in music?”

I looked at Mr. Jorgensen.

“Absolutely,” he said. “It is time.”