1: No Better Business Than Showbiz
Alexei Zakayev, backstage in the dark, stood taking exaggeratedly big breaths. From the start of the day, his heart had been beating madly.
How the hell did I pick to go first?
He asked himself over and over, sighing as he replayed the scene in his head. The lottery to choose performance order, in the lobby of the venue. I probably won’t pick number one, he had thought, and withdrew a slip, the first slip he felt from the box. Upon the paper: a single black line, as unmistakable as it was devastating.
He had despairingly passed the paper to the staff, who smiled sympathetically and declared his selection; the cheers that immediately erupted felt like a wet cloth smothering him.
Indeed, there’s no position in a competition as stressful and disadvantageous as first. You receive all the attention but none of the consideration: people’s minds immediately move on—“Next”—and at best, you become “the benchmark.” Are you better or worse than the benchmark. Almost never does the “benchmark” become the winner. And anyhow, nearly ninety competitors follow him: who’s likely to remember him, the first?
Am I unlucky or what.
Telling his teacher over the phone, he could hear nothing but short breaths.
All he could do was to give a memorable performance—what he’d been planning on anyhow, he thought bitterly. A performance enough to make them think, Oh, yeah, the first one, pretty good, no?
He furled and unfurled his fingers, waiting. No matter how many times he strode onstage, this particular brand of nervousness never became familiar.
Right, it’s better this way. I can just go and not worry about it. Much better than waiting for seventy, eighty people to go first.
So Alexei comforted himself.
But still, first. If only I’d rustled another piece of paper.
He recalled the tactility of the paper in that moment, as well as the roar that had consumed him.
He was jolted out of his miserable reverie by the stage manager calling his name. The rotating door of the stage opened, pouring forth bright, white light.
A piano awaited within that shower of light.
Off I go.
Alexei inhaled and stepped forward.
* * *
The competition, once it begins, usually becomes a measured, logistical affair. The staff, the contestants, the judges all fight against time. Smooth progression on the stage, performances not exceeding the time limit, speedy scoring. Everyone digs down so that the competition can run on schedule.
The First Round: twenty minutes.
A selection from the Well-Tempered Clavier, with a fugue of at least three voices.
The first movement or multiple movements including the first from a sonata by Haydn, Mozart, or Beethoven.
A work by a Romantic composer.
Fitting these three pieces into twenty minutes may seem simple, but poses particular difficulties. Performances much over twenty minutes are ruthlessly penalized.
Barring applause between pieces in the First and Second Rounds is likewise a measure both for the performer and the competition at large.
Almost the entire venue was filled. Though most were competition affiliates or friends and family, among them were more than a few ordinary music fans. For fans, finding a contestant who suits their tastes or guessing who will survive each round has a fun of its own. The left front of the venue, where one can see the contestants’ hands, naturally fills first. Contestants usually sit toward the back, for discreet entry and exit.
The judges and staff have monopolized the balcony; thirteen judges mark a circle, a triangle, or an X—three points, one point, and zero points; the top twenty-four scorers move on.
The standard’s really jumped, thought Nathaniel Silverberg after the first five performances. The First Round is typically used to weed out those with technical issues, but those with obvious shortcomings are increasingly few.
These days, with backgrounds as diverse as their repertoire, the competitions are an increasingly challenging affair to judge. Until recently, people would stuff their programs with acrobatic showpieces, but these days, he was happy to say, most seemed to select pieces actually to their liking: their performances were better that way, too.
But there are always gradations. “Able to play” and “Play” are finely delineated but distinct realms. Nathaniel thought that true musicianship was defined by almost always being in the latter.
The tricky thing is, even those who are merely “able to play” sometimes have a hidden ability to play, and others exert too much energy in seeming relaxed—as challenging as it is paradoxical—that their “playing” puts into doubt their ability to play.
Anyhow, these contestants really have zero slips, he thought. The giants of yesteryear would casually miss notes and play so eccentrically that even their enormous personalities could not sustain them, but such music probably never would be heard again.
But if this is what most of them are like, Masaru won’t need to worry, Nathaniel thought to himself, smiling indistinctly.
* * *
Nathaniel’s beloved pupil, Masaru, was sitting almost directly under him, in the main level. He, like his teacher, was impressed by the overall elevated skill level.
They’re all pretty great. I guess that’s the difference at a renowned competition—it attracts impressive contestants.
The two women right in front of him seemed to be conservatory students. Their knowledge of competition gossip, exchanged in bursts between competitors, had him listening in as well. His Japanese reading and writing weren’t great, but he could follow simple exchanges, and having a conversation partner in a Japanese international student helped to sustain his conversational Japanese.
To be perfectly honest, he was just waiting for the chance to talk with Ajang again one day. When that would be, he had no idea, but it sustained him still.
“Today’s main attraction is this one, Jennifer Chan.”
“I’ve heard her called the female Lang Lang. Or maybe just the next Yuja Wang.”
“She’s already had a concert debut. Nakajima-san heard her in New York.”
A short break. The two, holding their programs, exchanged further comments.
They know their stuff.
“I’m curious about this one. Tomorrow—Masaru Carlos.”
He flinched without thinking, and then settled in to listen.
“I’ve heard he’s amazing.”
“He’s so cool! Third- or fourth-generation Japanese, but his face isn’t Japanese at all, right?”
They seemed completely oblivious even to the possibility that he’d be sitting right behind them, listening in. He prayed that they wouldn’t turn around.
“The honeybee prince is on the last day.”
“Yep, I saw that too.”
Honeybee prince?
Masaru tilted his head, trying to listen in case he had misheard.
“Cute! He’s only sixteen. I can’t believe he’s five years younger than us. I kind of hate that.”
Masaru found the one they seemed to be looking at in his program. He hadn’t taken a proper look through the booklet, as he would hear almost all of them anyway.
“I heard his Paris audition was a bombshell.”
“I was so sad that the competition website only had his picture. How hard could it have been to upload a video?”
Jin Kazama.
The characters were unfamiliar, so he rolled the alphabetized spelling over in his mouth. A naïve boy’s face peered up at him.
Definitely young. The competition has no lower bound on age; he’d heard that the youngest contestant was fifteen, so Kazama was down there. A blank competition history, too.
But Masaru’s eyes fixated on the list of teachers.
Hugh von Hoffman.
No freaking way. Hoffman?
Masaru’s eyes widened. Hoffman was his own teacher’s nearly legendary teacher. But Hoffman had not permitted Nathaniel to call himself his pupil, despite his traveling from London to Berlin weekly to receive instruction.
Does prof know?
Masaru looked up at the low ceiling, at where he knew Nathaniel was sitting. Though Masaru cared much for others’ performances, he was disinterested in gossip and had heard next to nothing about the personalities at the competition or the auditions.
Hm, I suppose he did well at the auditions. This is going to be fun. Maybe most others don’t know, either.
“He’d been helping his dad right before his audition, did you hear? He was covered in dirt.”
“I guess he moves around if his dad works with bees. How do you think he practiced?”
“Seriously, what even.”
The mystery deepens, Masaru intoned mentally, in a comically deep voice. Can’t wait.
* * *
The moment the girl, swathed in bright red, appeared onstage, a ripple passed through the audience.
Jennifer Chan. Number eleven. United States.
A red so bright your eyes hurt looking at her, illuminated in all directions by the lights. A posture radiating such confidence—almost ego—of such intensity, it might have been detected by some as-yet-uninvented -ometer.
The day’s main attraction, huh.
Miëko Saga looked at this singular girl onstage. Her great height somewhat obscured her broad shoulders and sturdy frame—not to say she was inelegant or unfeminine. With such a physique, her sound was sure to be powerful too.
She’s surely an LW type.
An LW type: a cockamamie expression of her own devising, describing someone with such ‘L’imitless energy and technique that one wondered ‘W’hy they even bothered to be present.
The judges seemed awash, if not dripping, with expectation as well.
Her performance began as soon as she sat down.
Whoa! A silent exclamation overflowed from the hall. Each note was clear and energetic. Even when playing the fundamental of fundamentals, the WTC, the great scale of her music manifested itself.
An unbelievably moving Bach.
Miëko was at once in awe and in disbelief. To have the guts to play Bach like this.
Next was Beethoven: the first movement of Sonata no. 21, “Waldstein.”
The arcs of melody coiled and soared. The breakneck pulse of this piece was perfectly suited to this speed-crazed pianist.
Funny things, instruments were. The piano Jennifer Chan played evoked some custom-made Benz, being driven carelessly yet marvelously. A nudge of the steering wheel; overwhelming power; reckless speed coupled with a deep comfort. It’s so easy to become a docile station wagon or a temperamental muscle car, but here she was.
Jennifer Chan smoothly exited Waldstein highway; the audience seemed on the verge of applause before barely remembering the regulations.
The first movement of Waldstein alone takes nearly ten minutes. Time was a-ticking; Jennifer Chan moved on without a beat: Chopin’s “Héroique” Polonaise—another piece eminently suited to her. The most extravagant of Chopin’s polonaises. As popular as it risks being dull, but she sustained its particular rhythms refreshingly and with verve. Even Miëko had to admit that it conjured a joyous and cleansing sensibility.
As soon as the performance ended, rowdy applause burst forth. The life-affirming performance had imbued everyone with a sense of catharsis. The rumors were right: the next Yuja Wang was upon the world. Maybe even she realized that fact.
But that itself could be cause for worry. Did the world need another Yuja Wang?
* * *
In the very last row of the hall, a boy sat quietly and watched. A pale face and cowlicked hair peeked from beneath a large hat; he murmured something quietly. No, he was almost singing. And then, he tilted his head quizzically, before shaking it sadly.
“Something’s wrong.”
No one heard this small voice. At that moment, two girls rushed in.
“Damn it, we missed Jennifer Chan.”
“I knew we should have gone to the salon yesterday.”
“But there were no slots! There was nothing we could have done.”
Kanadae Hamazaki and Aya Eiden dithered by the entryway. Aya’s usual salon had been fully booked in the morning, so she had aimed to arrive at Yoshigaë by late afternoon; however, missing a train had caused her to miss the oh-so-famous Jennifer Chan.
“There are only three left.”
“Let’s just listen to Jennifer Chan’s recording. I’m sure it’ll be available by tomorrow.”
The boy saw their faces and started. It was the girl from yesterday who had caught him. He had forgotten himself and been caught like an idiot. Would she remember his face? He pushed his hat even further down.
“Where should we sit?”
“I want to check the sound in here. Let’s go toward the middle, for now.”
Thus they passed him for a row a little to the front, and he sighed in relief. Neither seemed to recognize him.
I wonder whether they’re competing too, he thought as he looked at the back of their heads. He missed the piano from yesterday. In a blissful daze, he recalled its touch.
The conservatories’ pianos really were better. The tuning was great, and the action was smooth and comfortable. He wished he could play pianos like those every day.
The boy conjured playing in his head. On the best piano, making the best sound. A sound he could replay in his head endlessly.
But to perform like that was too hard, and he’d almost never heard a sound like that.
Maybe only Maestro Hugh could make a sound like that.
He began to listen to the next pianist. This one was great too, a little different than the others, as they all were from each other.
He tilted his head again. The lady in red just now was good. He silently hummed her pieces.
I want to play too. I wonder whether there’s anywhere I can practice.
The performance ended, and there was another break. Following that, the last two performances of the day. The boy stood from his seat and followed other audience members out.
I wish I had a piano.
He decided to go back to the practice rooms. There wouldn’t be other contestants, at least from the day; maybe he could play there.
Heart beating, he entered the elevator.
I wonder where Dad is.
He checked his watch and imagined his dad on the move. He was sad he couldn’t help him during the competition.
I hope he hasn’t forgotten his promise to buy me a piano if I win.
He became a little nervous. His father was an easygoing, simple person, but he had a lot of blind spots as well. So careful with the bees, but almost entirely oblivious to anything else.
The boy had no piano at home. He also had no idea how incredible this was.