2: Prelude
The reason the boy turned around, startled, in the middle of the intersection, was not because of the car’s harsh horn.
O. The city center.
That center more beloved by tourists than any other, that center comprising all the world. That fulcrum of Europe.
The passersby, diverse in nationality, appearance, physique, and race, were a mosaic. Tour groups, lurching hither and thither, left behind echoes of foreign tongues and dialects.
Standing amidst this flow was the boy, of average height and stature but with a prepossessing aura, an ineffable potential for growth. Fourteen or fifteen, baby-faced.
A broad-brimmed hat, chinos and a khaki T-shirt, a thin beige jacket. A canvas bag, askew, slung across a shoulder. On first glance, he was like any teen-ager anywhere, but there’s a curious simplicity about him.
His tidy features are Asiatic, but his pale skin and wide eyes belied easy identification.
Those eyes wandered nothingness. Just as those ears heard no din, those eyes saw beyond the fray toward a point infinitesimal and discrete.
When he looked up, a blond boy passing followed. But he was soon dragged away by his mother. He looked back wistfully—at the teen or his hat—but soon gave up.
Meanwhile, the teen, suddenly returned to earth and noticing the imminently changing light, rushed to the sidewalk.
The sound—it was definitely there. Standing on the corner, he parsed the sound: the unmistakable buzz of a honeybee’s wings. A sound ingrained from childhood, unmistakable.
Had it flown in from near city hall?
Aimlessly looking about, he noticed a clock and recalled the punctuality requisite of him.
I’ve got to keep my obligations.
He pressed his hat down and hurried off.
* * *
Miëko Saga[1][2] jolted awake. Embarrassing—that after so many years she was still falling asleep on the job.
Forgetting where she was, she almost looked about herself, but her vision latched onto the young girl sitting at the grand piano onstage, and she thought, Yes, right, Paris.
She knew that she couldn’t start, couldn’t look about or stretch her back. Then others would know she’d fallen asleep. No, she had to make some gesture feigning absorption in the music or sit still, stone-faced, and compose herself.
Not that Miëko was alone in her fatigue. She needn’t even glance at her compatriots to know they were about where she is.
Next to her, Alain Simon sat indifferent to everything but his nicotine withdrawal, made even more unendurable by the succession of boring performances. She imagined him suppressing his hand’s twitching.
Beside him was Sergei Smirnoff, who was probably listening, as ugly-faced and as still as a gargoyle, with his huge head stuck way out over the desk. And, without a doubt, all he was thinking about was rushing out in search of his eponymous vodka.
Miëko was with them on that count. A lover of life as well as music, she adored both cigarettes and booze. She wanted to get this wretchedness over with and commiserate with her fellow judges over a drink.
This was one of five auditions taking place in the world’s cultural capitals.
Moscow. Paris. Milan. New York. Yoshigaë, Japan.[3] In all the cities but the last, renowned conservatories’ halls were rented for the occasion.
“How are those three in charge of Paris?” Miëko knew of such talk behind her back, and nevertheless pulled strings to get the three of them in one place. Among competition judges, the three of them were known as “the problem kids,” and, unified by the world’s contempt, they occasionally came together even independent of their work to get roaring drunk.
On one hand, all of them were proud and trusting of their keenness of hearing. Professional impropriety aside, they were known for their tolerance of unorthodox interpretations and obscure repertory. If any bunch could find a musical diamond in the rough—rough indeed, these children with no musical pedigree—it’d be them. Or so they thought.
Now their focus was failing them.
And who could have helped it, given the day’s performances. Beginning in the early afternoon, there were a few “not bad” kids, but Miëko’s anticipation soon gave way to drudgery.
Stepping onstage, stiff as a board, thinking that this performance would launch their careers. If only. She felt apologetic to the contestants, but she was looking for stars, not technicians.
There were supposed to be twenty-five performances that day, but this one was only number fifteen. She could feel her nerves giving way at the thought of ten more of these performances. In these moments, she wondered whether being a competition judge was some niche form of self-harm.
Bach. Mozart. Chopin. Bach. Mozart. Beethoven. Her mind went numb with the repetition.
It’s easier to notice a genius, someone brilliant and true. Some judges say they know one from the moment they step onto the stage. And even if they don’t have an aura, within a few moments, their approximate level is fairly obvious. One may want to scorn dozing and uncaring judges, but if contestants can’t convince judges who are paid to listen, they’ll never survive the crowds who pay to listen.
Miracles are miracles for a reason.
So Miëko thought, and surely so did the others.
The Sixth Triennial Yoshigaë International Piano Competition. Though there are countless piano competitions, Yoshigaë has come to be held in especially high regard. With several of its first-place winners going on to win even more prestigious competitions, it’s now considered a kingmaker of sorts, with all the attention that that entails.
The winner last time had been one of these contestants: little pedigree, no awards. From the very first competition, Yoshigaë had held auditions for those who didn’t pass the document stage, and last competition’s winner had passed these auditions to make it to the First Round. And then the Second, and the Third, until the whole competition was won outright. Not long after, with the acclaimed S— International Competition conquered as well, that child had become a musician and stepped out into the world.
Naturally, expectations were high. And the contestants, uplifted by this Cinderella-esque precedent, positively brimmed with unspoken if onlys.
But that winner had graduated from a top conservatory and had only failed the document stage for lack of competition experience. Most audition contestants fairly matched the First Round’s level of talent. But without the tempering and humbling that a childhood of maestro instruction and competition-hopping provides, few audition contestants would survive the First Round’s open seas. Some musicians save their best disciples for a grand reveal, but it’s often these favorites who have the hardest time leaving their nests. And, in any case, without the nerves and stamina to compete in weeks-long competitions and to travel half a year at a time on world tours, it’s more or less impossible to become a concert pianist.
And yet the line of youngsters sitting down before them knows no end.
Technique is but a minimum. And there is no guarantee any of them will become musicians, or even survive very long after a debut. How many hours they must have sacrificed before that fearsome black machine. How many pleasures of childhood sacrificed, how burdensome their families’ gifts and expectations and investment. All for a chance to let their quixotic dream bear fruit.
Miëko suddenly thought of her high school friend Mayumi Ikaï. Now a popular mystery writer, she grew up abroad and only spent high school in Japan. Miëko, growing up between South America, Europe, and Japan with her diplomat father, chafed against the strict conformity of Japanese culture, and found her few friends in lone wolves like Mayumi. Even now, they met for the occasional drink, and it was her friend’s wont to mention every meeting the similarities between the worlds of literature and classical piano.
—You see, they’re the same. The competition prizes and the debut awards. People enter all sorts of competitions and apply for all sorts of awards. Very few can make a living doing either, and even though there are ridiculous numbers of people who want to share their writing or music, there aren’t so many people who want to listen to them or read their stuff.
Miëko laughed bitterly. With the graying of classical music audiences worldwide, nothing was more important than finding young fans.
Mayumi continued. See, they both even spend their days pounding keys. Maybe they both seem sophisticated. Only the finished product is ever really seen, after all. But to get there, they both also need to screw off in a room somewhere for five hours a day and not make a peep until their peep is worth anything.
Mayumi’s tone took on a shade of masochistic pride. But the number of competitions, the number of young writers’ awards, they’re going nowhere but up. They even have strange alternate ways to find new talent these days, in a really desperate sort of way. And why? Because it’s so hard to survive as it is. In a world where anyone who’s just ordinary is immediately disqualified, you need to cast your net as wide as possible. Or else the audience shrinks and the market shrinks. So that’s why everyone’s looking for new stars.
—You’re forgetting the upfront cost, Miëko retorted. Novels don’t have some upfront investment. How much do you think we put in before we even start?
—That’s true, Mayumi acknowledged. And then she started counting off her fingers.
—Instruments. Sheet music. Lesson fees. Entry fees, bouquets. Clothes and study abroad and travel. What else?
—Hall rentals, salaries. And don’t forget CD production, programs, advertising.
—Unimaginable for the poor, Mayumi scorned. Miëko smiled.
—Pianists are the world’s greatest salesmen. Concerts are always live, always somewhere new with a different instrument every time. They have to level with audiences everywhere they go. So they end up thinking about, Oh, what was this audience like, they were rather picky, and so on. And those who don’t, well, they come to suffer in the form of no return offer. Everyone envies all those musicians who can travel with their own instrument. Well, those musicians with light instruments, like violas and trumpets. I guess no one envies a bassist.
They laughed together.
—But there is one thing, Mayumi said with a shade of jealousy, that you have over us—music is universal! There’s no language barrier. Awe and joy translate seamlessly. We writers, we couldn’t be more jealous of you musicians.
Miëko shrugged, stopping her tongue. Her mind drifts: awe and joy. Indeed. That indescribable, incandescent feeling, beyond words or expression. If you can express it, give it, transmit it to your audience, if you can conjure that moment, you can just about forget all your suffering, all you went through, in pursuit of that moment. It is unsullied and pure, perfect and entire.
The reason we’re sitting here, minds foggy and body aching; the reason we’ll pour wine by the bucketful and slander the industry; the reason anyone would ever give so much to stand on this stage; is all for that moment, for it will all have been worth it.
Her papers indicate fived more contestants.
Five more ahead.
Miëko began thinking about who to pass among those she’d heard so far. There was only one who she was sure deserved it. Another who, if Alain and Sergei were inclined, she’d support. But the rest weren’t even worth discussion.
Which brought up the question of order. Were the “not bad” kids at the front really not bad? Would she still think so if she heard them now? The effect of order is inherent, perhaps even intentional in auditions or competitions, and there are those who believe conquering it to be another trial … but she couldn’t help but feel uneasy.
There have been two Japanese so far, both graduates of the Paris precollege, both with faultless technique. One of them, she was uncertain but open-minded about; the other, well, didn’t really have any special something.
When everyone’s technique is so clean, that “special something” is all one can rely on. Obvious talent and unique character aside, the difference between the passing and failing contestants is so minute as to be arbitrary. “The one who’s really trying,” “The one who sparks something,” “The one who kept my eye”—the reality is, such imprecise and biased descriptors must be used to make—for the contestants—life-and-death decisions. Her own standard was whether she’d ever want to hear more from a contestant.
Turning the page, she saw the name:
Jin Kazama
Miëko generally tried not to look at any personal details before listening to a performance, if only to judge the contestant on musicality alone. But she found that impossible with Kazama.
His info sheet was blank.
Since the form was in French, she didn’t know what characters he wrote his name with, but he definitely looked Japanese. He seemed in his photo elegant and yet somehow also wild.
Otherwise, there was nothing to read. No schooling, no competition experience, nothing. Graduated from elementary school in Japan and moved to France. C’est tout.
Not going to conservatory is not all that uncommon. Plenty who debut as child prodigies (or just as children) decide against formal schooling. More often, they pursue an academic degree to buttress a lacking foundation of theory and history. Miëko herself, having won second and first in renowned competitions in her early teens and right away entered the touring circuit, went to conservatory as an alibi more than anything else.
But, looking at this sheet, one would never know he had any musical experience at all. Only one line was of note: “special auditor, Paris Conservatory precollege, current.”
Special auditor? What even was that? She was skeptical, but here was this sheet in front of her, in the Paris Conservatory concert hall, so it didn’t seem to be an outright lie.
And then she noticed in the corner a list—“mentorships”—and realized how this could have arrived in front of her, and that this could be nothing but a joke.
A chill went through her entire body.
It couldn’t be.
I must have seen this, but somehow repressed it.
In that section was written:
Studied with Hugh von Hoffman from 5 years old
She could feel her heart flopping about, maniacally pumping hot blood throughout her body. Even she didn’t understand why she was reacting this way—a fact which only exacerbated the reaction.
This doesn’t mean anything, not really. The performance is what matters. Who knows where this pebble rolled in from.
She wanted desperately to dispute this Kazama with her fellow judges but suppressed the desire. Whereas Miëko didn’t consult the info sheets at all, Alain skimmed them and Sergei dissected them, so there was no way they weren’t aware of it. There was even a note of a letter of recommendation.
A letter! From Hoffman! No way they didn’t jump in their seats. They might even have read it.
Now that Miëko thought about it, at dinner last night, Alain was squirming in his seat, as though he had a secret to share. They have long promised never to discuss contestants before auditions, but he definitely had known.
Alain’s twitching mouth appeared vivid and funny in her mind.
At the time, they were talking about Hoffman, who had quietly passed the February past. His name was legendary, and he was respected by musicians and musicophiles worldwide, but he had wanted a quiet funeral, and so his family members performed the affair before even releasing word of his death.
But there was no way his acolytes would let his death pass thus, and so two months later many gathered in his hometown for a memorial. Miëko, on account of a recital, could not attend, but she watched a recording of the ceremony afterward.
Hoffman left no will. It was a move befitting a man who bucked formality all his life, but he allegedly told his closest friend that he had “installed a bomb” before he passed, a comment which was the topic du jour at the memorial and which Miëko turned over in her mind. Hoffman was legendary and secretive, yes, but also playful and mischievous—his comment belied easy interpretation.
—When I leave, it will detonate. The most beautiful bomb in the world.
Hoffman’s own family and loved ones asked again and again what he meant, but he would just repeat, A bomb! and laugh his jolly laugh.
What could the recommendation say?
In her excitement, her mind returned to the murmuring concert hall a beat late. The stage was empty and the staff were urgently conversing.
Jin Kazama. Was he not coming?
Miëko realized she was feeling reassured.
Of course. There has got to be something wrong with this—a big joke. The recommendation is probably a mistake too. Hoffman was getting old—getting soft, thinking, Oh, sure, maybe I’ll write a recommendation.
At that moment, the stage manager appeared and expressionlessly declared, “We have received word that the contestant has been delayed by travel. He will be pushed to last, and the other contestants will proceed.”
The audience quieted, and a girl in a dress as red as her face—one must imagine the shock of having twenty minutes less to prepare—stepped onto the stage.
What the hell.
Miëko was disappointed. But she also, embarrassingly enough, felt much calmer.
Jin Kazama. What sort of performance will he give?
* * *
“Hurry, hurry, faster!”
The boy, just having arrived, was being pulled forward by the intimidating, rather large stage manager.
“Um, I, I’d like to wash my hands please.”
The man, who looked as though he would toss the boy onstage by the scruff of his neck without a second thought, paused and showed him the bathroom.
“Hurry. You’ll need to change, too, yes? The dressing rooms are down the hall.”
“Change?”
The boy cocked his head.
“Do I have to?”
In no world was he dressed to perform. Was he planning on going onstage like this? Most performed in full evening dress; even the casual ones at least put on a jacket.
“I’m sorry. I came directly from helping my Dad at work. I’ll just wash my hands,” the boy said sullenly.
The boy extended his hands and the manager couldn’t help but start: the large hands were caked with dirt, as though he had been in a field moments prior.
“What the …”
The man muttered at the boy’s receding figure. He stared at the bathroom door into which the boy disappeared.
Maybe he confused the venue with somewhere else? He’d never seen a contestant appear with his hands covered in dirt. He checked the ticket the boy had given him. That was him all right—photo and all.
Hmph.
* * *
Miëko and her fellow judges saw the boy step onstage and snorted.
A kid.
That was the precise word that appeared in Miëko’s mind.
He’s just any kid you’d run into on the street.
No pomade in his hair, a T-shirt and plain khakis. Blinking and staring about the stage. Eminently unfitting with his surroundings.
There are plenty of children who thumb their noses at the uptight establishment and appear in aggressively casual or even punk outfits, but this boy seemed clueless more than anything.
He was indeed a beautiful boy. A beauty that did not realize its own beauty, an un-self-conscious beauty. Even the bone structures, not yet fully matured, had beauty.
The boy stared dully. Miëko and company sat and stared back.
Sergei had had enough. “You’re the last one. Please begin.”
As a matter of fact, mikes had been installed so that the judges could communicate with the contestants, but this was the first time they had been used—there had been no need up until now.
“Oh. Yes.” The boy, seemingly having gathered his senses, perked up and stood straight. His voice—deeper, more energetic than one would have expected. “I’m sorry for being late.”
With a short bow, he turned to the piano. It seemed that the grand piano which he was to play was only now entering his vision, or consciousness.
In that moment, a peculiar, almost electric shock arced from the boy outward. Miëko and her fellow judges, the staff, even the audience seemed to be holding their breath.
The boy’s eyes—shining. His expression—joy. Utter joy.
He reached his hand out and approached the piano. Like one who has found love at first sight.
The boy tap-tapped to the seat, embarrassedly and yet somehow elegantly.
Miëko felt an inexplicable chill. The look on his face was that of an artiste, one who was conjuring that moment—and knew it.
Momentarily, she thought that she oughtn’t look upon it—him. And then she felt every hair rise on her back.
What is this, this fear? This terror?
The terror was at the fact that, from the first note, the boy’s performance was at a climax. She knew that this terror was being felt by everyone else in the hall.
The air itself, until now loose and languid, now felt charged and alive with that sound.
O, that sound. It’s different. It’s incomprehensibly different.
Miëko forgot that the Mozart that the boy was playing was the same piece that she had listened to ad nauseam all day.
But it’s the same score. On the same piano.
Of course, this was not a new experience—it’s not uncommon for an ingenious pianist to conjure fresh and exciting music from the same piano.
But, but—this boy—
How can it be this great, this terrible.
Even amidst the terror and awe, Miëko slowly settled into the boy’s timbral colors. Her body lilted forward, afraid to miss a note; from the corner of her eye, she saw that Alain’s hand had not twitched one millimeter since the performance’s start.
The stage was bright.
More specifically, the liminal space between the boy’s fingers and the keys was bright. It almost seemed as though waves or pulses of energy were emanating from that space, like heat off a surface on a hot day.
When playing Mozart—beautiful, naïve Mozart—one instinctively tries to become naïve alongside the music. To express that singular and pure music, the musician opens the eyes furiously wide and forcefully emphasizes the gentleness and joy.
But this boy did not need to pretend. He sat calmly, brushing the keys, and the music could not have flowed more naturally.
If a science sufficiently advanced is indistinguishable from magic, then a talent sufficiently great can evoke but terror.
Or so Miëko thought.
Without her noticing, the music turned to Beethoven.
Now, she felt its speed. The music was imbued with a certain energy, whose certainty of expression could not be clearer. Beethoven’s music always has a certain angularity, a nearly physical vector, and the vectors of this boy’s music pierced the souls of all who listened.
Miëko struggled to reconcile what she heard with analysis and expression. But she was drunk on the boy’s music. She became infantile—speechless and thoughtless, but full of life.
And now the music became Bach.
My God! Miëko screamed. Internally.
The boy was performing all three pieces without a beat of rest. Like a broken dam, whose coursing water is unstoppable; like a heartbeat, perpetual and perfect, one piece flowed into the next.
The hall had been conquered, flattened by the world the boy had conceived, and all gave up their ears to his overflow of sound.
A great sound, Miëko thought. A large sound. Who could have imagined that ailing piano could now produce such a large sound. And from hands that danced so comfortably, so easily.
The harmonies, calculated and precise and perfect, built upon one another into a vast architecture of sound, echoing and pounding and overwhelming.
He’s a devil. Fearsome. Terrible.
Miëko was overwhelmed. But even then, she could feel her emotions turning into fury.
* * *
The boy gave a small bow, trite and polite, and strode—almost scuttled—away, leaving the hall still mesmerized in his wake. And then the applause began: people red in the face, clapping with all their might, cheering and whistling.
The stage was perfectly empty.
All looked at one another. Could it have been a dream?
Sergei stood, shaking, and called out, “Hey, get that boy back here! I want to ask him some questions.”
“Unbelievable,” Alain sighed as he lay back in his seat.
The hall was unspeakably noisy. “Hey! I told you to get that boy!”
“Sir, I’m afraid he’s gone. He stepped off stage and left immediately.”
“What!?” Sergei literally, comically, pulled at his hair.
“No way it was a dream? Something in the pastrami pork from lunch?”
“It really is exactly as Hoffman said.” Simon turned to Miëko. “Sorry about that, by the way. We really wanted to tell you, but you understand.”
“I’ll never forgive it,” she murmured.
“What?” Alain blinked.
“That. I can’t ever forgive that.” Miëko glared at Alain, and then at Sergei.
“Miëko?” They could see: she was furious.
She slammed the table. “I refuse it. I reject it. That is a hideous insult to Maestro Hoffman. I refuse to endorse him for this competition!”
Alain and Sergei looked between each other, and then at the shaking Miëko. The hall was still in utter chaos.
1. Eastern names are rendered first-last.
2. Umlauts denote non-diphthong vowels.
3. The city is fictional.