8: The Well-Tempered Clavier Book 1 No. 1
Masaru Carlos Levi Anatol woke in his hotel room moments before his 6 A.M. alarm and hurriedly silenced the clamoring clock.
In truth, he had only been awoken by his alarm a handful of times in his memory. He had a miraculous ability to wake precisely when he wished, but today he set one, just one in case.
His jetlag from traveling to Japan had dissipated within a few days.
He stood up, and, shedding the yukata that strained his frame, thrust open the curtains.
He could see all of Yoshigaë from his room. The majestic curves of the Pacific at the horizon spread endlessly. Thin clouds drifted here and there, but the day was bright, and the mix of blues and grays in the mutely sparkling sea was unspeakably beautiful. Masaru sighed dumbly and admired the scene without end.
The Pacific, as seen from Japan, was colorful, and yet it seemed much like an ink-wash painting. Perhaps it was that he was seeing the ocean past the mist and spray on the surface. He couldn’t believe it was the same ocean as the one he saw off the West Coast.
He burst with energy, as always. He stretched, washed his face, and then changed into his jogging clothes and exited the hotel.
As he ran, the quiet streets of Yoshigaë pleased him; the cool ocean air refreshed him.
The energetic pitter-patter of a loping dog. The engine of a newspaper-delivery motorcycle. These were Japan’s sounds. He ran a little, walked a little, and ran again.
The eight or nine who watched him run would think him some athlete. The vigor pulsing in his every step; the solid muscles of his arms and shoulders. He did once in fact train for the high jump, and even those around him at Juilliard sometimes thought him an athlete.
The pianos on-site, the weather-dependent track; the stage, the stadium. In a world where everything was networked and wired together, physical movement must be deliberately had. So today’s musicians must all the more train their bodies along with their minds and hands. Long fingers and large hands, flexible wrists and neck, lung capacity and slow breathing, finely sensitive muscles and reserves of endurance. All these are necessary for beautiful pianissimi and fortissimi, for bringing to life depth of understanding and subtlety of mood, for ease of playing and expression. And he had it all.
Masaru matched his strides and breaths, imagining oxygen being delivered throughout his body.
He does not listen to music while running, but still a gentle Bach flows in his mind. Mornings are for Bach. Today, The Well-Tempered Clavier, in anticipation of the First Round: not Gould’s recording, but Leonhardt’s, at least today.
Hello, Japan, Masaru thought to himself.
* * *
Masaru lived in Japan from five to seven years old. To be honest, the memories were hardly there. Having no trouble with everyday conversation in Japanese, he was enrolled in the nearest public school, but did not last even three months.
He did not take it to heart, maybe thanks to his easygoing personality, but the sense that he alone was different covered every interaction like a coat of ash and remained in his memory. The curiously bland and similar schoolchildren, all looking at him with disdain.
The one who had been traumatized far more than Masaru had been his mother.
His mother, Michiko, was Peruvian and third-generation Japanese; his mother’s family had worked, from the first generation, until their bodies folded over, so that they could lay roots and become prosperous. As a quarter-Japanese, she did not appear Asian, but she took great pride in her heritage. She had long imbibed the expat Japanese virtues: to value labor, to keep promises, to be kind to strangers, to save and invest, to study, to keep a regular life, to keep one’s household and surroundings tidy. Her siblings had gone on to elite professions, but she stood out even among them: after studying engineering at Peru’s most prestigious university, she traveled to France, where she earned a doctorate, worked as a nuclear scientist, and married a French physicist to have Masaru. His long and complicated name owed something to this background.
After France’s nuclear program began winding down, they moved to a suburb of Yokohama, Japan. It was Michiko’s first time in Japan, and she had high expectations for coming to the country of her roots. She wanted to send Masaru to the country’s famed public schools.
Suffice to say that her expectations were shattered to bits.
Her son was utterly rejected by the “society” known as Japanese elementary school. Her son’s bookbag reeked of the rotting fish which some classmate had thrown in; as soon as he left the doorstep, he threw out all the food in his lunchbox. Not just against the son, but also against the mother did Japanese society raise a cold brick wall. A society that taught her until it hurt that she was other. Though she had always been an amiable, extroverted, beautiful woman, there had been days where she seemed even more depressed than Masaru. There was no other choice than to send Masaru to an international school until they could return to France.
Though Japan had been quite the trauma to his mother, Masaru did not only feel that way. It was true that Japan made you know it if you didn’t fit in, and he still occasionally felt anger at the country that had rejected his mother, one of its own. But that itself may be part of Japan’s peculiar, double-edged charm.
The stuffy elementary was indeed unpleasant, but then so were all schools. He did not think France particularly remarkable, either. It was just that it was accustomed to foreigners, and had a system for integrating them (perhaps thanks to its robust experience in colonization)—but there was discrimination everywhere, and children’s abilities of detecting weakness and otherness were as acute in Europe as in Asia. Masaru simply wasn’t different enough to be noticed in France. After another few years in France, both of his parents moved to America, and from eleven on, he was even less conspicuous.
Masaru, let’s go!
Masaru unthinkingly turned around.
The bright, clear voice remained untainted in his memory. Somehow, after ten years, it’d only gotten clearer.
Masaru first met the piano in Japan.
* * *
Masaru returned to the hotel, showered, and walked down to the restaurant. It was just shy of seven-thirty, and most of the customers were businessmen. There were a few competition affiliates, but not all that many.
The First Round, which begins today, takes five days. As all events begin after lunch, it may simply be that people are taking the morning off. Those competing today likely would come down for a bite to eat around early lunchtime. They would practice right before their appearance. Or, unable to sleep or eat, they may have just practiced all night. Who knows.
Masaru thought everyone lived as he did, never feeling any sort of stage fright. He was always surprised to hear about or to see those who lost their appetite and thinned out as a competition approached. To think people—Juilliard students, professionals even—lived like that was a fact he only realized after matriculating.
Masaru was awed by the thrill during his first competition. It was like some sort of match, a bloodthirsty tournament. How his adrenaline had coursed through him.
More than anything, it was fun to hear so much music of diverse ability and interpretation live.
—Masaru, what are you getting at? What’s the point of just sitting here?
Somebody’s disbelieving comment (he thought it was a Juilliard classmate) came to mind. From the first day of every competition, he listened to every performance (except the ones right before and after him).
—It’s fun, you know? When else can you hear so much music at once?
To hear Masaru genuinely speak of fun must have baffled his friend. Had his friend expected him to say that “bad music dulls the ears” like Jennifer Chan?
Of course, there were dull performances, and performances with shall we say technical difficulties. But for whatever reason, it was enjoyable to think about the paths to victory as well.
—Masaru, your temperament is that of a teacher, his personal instructor Nathaniel Silverberg would say; such was Masaru’s interest in listening to strangers’ performances.
Nationality, personality, habits of instructors. How is it that the same pieces, on the same piano, could sound so different? Because competitions felt much like a showcase, Masaru never got bored no matter how much he listened. To think that there were countless youth ensnared by this instrument, yoked to it for all too many hours: amidst those thoughts, Masaru would contemplate the devilish thrall of the piano. The same quality that enthralled him as a child.
Maya, let’s go!
The girl was a year or two older than him. Large, sparkling eyes, and long, straight, dark hair.
Uh, uh huh.
Masaru would deliberately make a face at his doorstep, seeming uninterested. In those moments, the girl would grab Masaru’s hand and march onward; it was this that Masaru had been waiting for. The feeling of that hand’s tenderness, leading them both to the piano studio.
Somehow he had been allowed to listen in on the girl’s lesson. Thinking back on it now, it truly was unusual, entirely unusual.
It was also extremely formative. At the teacher’s studio, all sorts of music could be heard. Rock, jazz, pop, dance. While Masaru played along to whatever was in the air or improvised this and that, the teacher and the girl would practice scales and maybe play together. And then, before anyone knew it, it would be time to go.
When the girl played, he was unable to sense her youth. Though she was outwardly a small, young girl, within, there lay a maturity and charm in her expansive, calm playing. Though he thought at the time that anyone who learned to play could and would play like her, her level was in fact stratospheric; she was the first prodigy he’d ever met. You’d think, given her skill, he’d at least have remembered her name.
But in truth, Masaru did not, and so never even bothered to look her up. It was a challenging name, and they’d called each other play names—Maya, Ajang—and she probably didn’t remember his name either.
After all, it was total coincidence that they’d met at all. Though they lived on the same street, she attended a private school, and so they never quite had the chance to meet. But, as he passed by her house, he came to enjoy the piano music that would trickle out from it. And one day, he saw a girl walking out of the house with a treble clef-adorned backpack. How to even describe it? Her face was entirely different from other students he knew. He could never tell what was going on with his peers when he looked at their faces, but she seemed almost to overflow with light—some innate brilliance that manifested in a brightness of expression.
—Are you the one always playing the piano?
Masaru asked, blurted really, but she eyed him interestedly.
—Yes, and what about you?
—I’m Masaru. I like that bit, but you always seem to slow down there—
He hummed the phrase; the girl’s eyes widened.
—Wow, you have really keen hearing! Yeah, that bit, I’m not so good at. I don’t really get how the music flows.
The girl thought for a moment, and then asked, Are you busy?
—Huh? Masaru couldn’t quite believe his ears.
—Come with me; it’ll be fun. Yeah, come on, let’s go, let’s go, Maya!
Even that day she had taken his hand and marched without a second thought. And when the teacher saw the vaguely Latinate child, there was no remark, no surprise beyond simply, You’ve brought a friend?
—Yes, Maya. His hearing is really, really good!
She spoke with such confidence, nodding all the while.
He’s thought a great deal about this miraculous, fateful encounter. She probably saw his ability, no, his intuition just waiting to be unlocked inside him.
And indeed, the teacher was soon stunned by Masaru’s hearing as well. His perfect pitch allowed him to recreate anything he’d heard even once. Teaching him the basics was no problem, even though he couldn’t practice at home for lack of a piano. Soon, he could play simple pieces side by side with the girl, singing loudly and joyfully—a time he’ll never forget.
—Hm, the teacher would sigh, murmuring indistinctly. You are incredible. You two—there’s something about the two of you. You both have tremendous music within you, and it’d be criminal to lock up something so bright and strong somewhere so small.
—Maya’s sounds are like the ocean, right?
—The ocean? Both Maya and the teacher asked.
—Yeah. A clear blue sky, huge ocean, splashing waves about. A seagull maybe paddling for a moment.
—You’re quite right, the teacher laughed.
But Maya couldn’t laugh, not really. His heart swelled at the girl’s comment. That she praised him, and recognized, him, and that she—his genius friend—said so made him finally able to believe in his own sound, and that belief made him unspeakably happy.
When Masaru was to return to France, the teacher said to him, Maya, you have an incredible sound. It’s my wish that you learn piano properly when you get home. And even if you don’t, I hope you continue to love it. It’ll be an asset for you.
The girl bawled, No, no, it’s not fair, you said we’d practice until we could play Rachmaninoff together, but there was just nothing to be done. Tiring herself out from crying, she said weakly, You have to keep playing, promise me, and gave him, red-eyed, that treble-cleffed backpack.
* * *
Back in France, Masaru told his parents that he wanted to learn to play the piano. Until then, never having heard him say so confidently that he wanted something, they agreed easily. And so Masaru began taking lessons once a week at a conservatory student’s house, carrying his music in Ajang’s bag.
After a few lessons, the conservatory student reached out to his parents, taken aback by his ability. He said he’d take care of finding sufficiently prestigious instruction if they’d commit seriously to music. Within two years, Masaru’s talents had caused some stir; he was being called a prodigy. He indeed had his own sound.
—Listen up, Masaru, Nathaniel Silverberg had said to him when he had decided to compete in the Yoshigaë Competition. You are a star. You have an aura, and an incredible innate musicality. And you’re strong, and mentally ready.
At this, Nathaniel eyed Masaru, almost glared at him. I don’t say this to other students; it pressures them or makes them arrogant.
Nathaniel’s trademark tone, at once cold and passionate. Masaru liked the seemingly perfect but charmingly flawed Nathaniel.
—But it’s you, so I’m saying. I, more than anyone, believe in your ability. Take hold of the prize. Win it as if it it’s your name.
—Yes, Maestro.
After breakfast, Masaru returned to his room and changed. Naturally, he intended to listen to every performance this competition as well. In the morning, he’d play at the house of a friend of Nathaniel’s, but the afternoon was for the competition.
His eye fell on the dark canvas bag in his suitcase. A bag with a treble clef print. Though he no longer used it, he carried it around: his good luck charm.
Past the window, the Pacific shined; Masaru, back straight, pulled on a white dress shirt.