4: A Star Is Born
“Whoa, what’s all this?” Aya suddenly felt a little dazed at the packed recital hall. “Why is it so busy? It’s only the First Round.”
The numbers were dominated by young female attendees.
“Aya, didn’t you hear?” Kanadae looked at her wonderingly.
“Hear what?”
“Today’s the first performance of the person who’s the favorite to win. The Juilliard prince.”
“What do you mean, prince?” It was now Aya’s turn to look wonderingly. There were so many princes of this and kings of that these days that Aya, who was loath to follow gossip or celebrity culture to begin with, did not even bother to keep the alleged royalty straight.
“Aya, did you not read up on the other competitors?”
“Why should I, when I’m here listening to them every day?”
Kanadae bore an expression of exasperation. With the globalization of competition culture and individual rivalries, the internet was replete with data about anyone who was anyone.
“Even I know who he is. Nathaniel Silverberg’s god-child, figuratively. His secret weapon. He’s apparently even part Japanese.”
“Really? I like Silverberg a lot, his playing and whatever. I think he’s only conducting these days. I wish he’d play again.”
There was no hint of the Aya who vowed to try hard whilst they picked out dresses only a few days ago. Replacing her was this, this naïve girl, or so Kanadae thought. She believed in Aya’s ability, but this was a competition: a total lack of greed or passion would not be advantageous either.
First Round, day two.
Kanadae’s father had asked her to help Aya throughout the competition. With Aya’s main instructor having two other students in the competition, he did not have the time to help someone who had entered a competition more or less on a whim. She was happy it wasn’t Aya’s wont to be distressed, but it did strike her as odd that she was so different from the other contestants, bent out of shape and raging at the slightest provocation.
No: in a long First Round, Aya is performing basically last. Kanadae thought Aya being this calm might actually be perfect. It’s said that once a competition begins, there’s nothing more important than being able to tame the hellhounds nipping one’s tail—especially in a competition as big as this one. Twenty minutes onstage in five days—the waiting is enough to drive anyone mad. The peculiar energy hanging in competition halls and green rooms can poison the minds of weaker-willed performers; no amount of practice saves them from self-destruction born of sheer nerves.
It’s her first senior competition. Will she be OK?
Kanadae peered at Aya, who was intently listening to the music, her face in elegant profile.
She hadn’t told anyone, but if Aya made it to the Final Round, Kanadae was planning on switching to the viola. This switch had nothing to do with Aya, and she could have done it any time, but that’s just what she’d been telling herself.
She’d long felt she wanted to play the viola. Its sonority. Its heft and position. It was perfect for her. She’d played it a few times, and it felt like an extension of her body. But a violist she admired told her to study the violin well and faithfully until she was twenty, and then to switch only if she was still inclined. The viola’s solo repertoire was much more limited, and one limited one’s own abilities of performance by specializing too early, he’d said.
I trust my ears.
Kanadae glanced at Aya again. Her certainty, when she was much younger, that Aya would debut, was being proven before her eyes; Aya’s reaching the Final Round would be the ultimate affirmation, and she could confidently make her switch.
Thus Kanadae was using Aya’s competition as her own launchpad, and that was why she was so encouraging of Aya’s seeming calm: the better to reach her own dreams.
But Christ, this music. It’s really unbelievable. What should I tell Dad?
She stuck her tongue out, in her mind, at these perfect little performers stepping onstage one after another.
It was little coincidence that the similar culture and minimal timezone difference would attract Asian contestants; they were all marvelous to a fault. It would certainly not be Kanadae’s place to pass serious judgment, but even five or six years ago, plenty of performers were lost in their own worlds of torpid interpretations and subpar technique; there were none today. Each one of them had their own particular musicality. It could only be that the bar had been set extremely high. Like it or not, this had led to a certain homogeneity, but she thought each country’s contestants still had a particular flavor common to each of them.
The Chinese, for example, seemed to play with the spirit of the vast Asian landmass infused within them. A wide-open sort of sonority defined their style. The Chinese who entered competitions tended to be at least very, if not extremely or astronomically, wealthy; the contestants, having imbibed their country’s economic miracles and heaven-ordained greatness, played with an energetic, vectorized quality; it might be likened to gigawatt skylights piercing nighttime skies. It was an alluring mode of playing, but with pianistic pyrotechnics easily found today, also a style at risk of being, paradoxically, unremarkable. More than anything, their performances were characterized by a deep, optimistic self-assurance. It was something hard to come by in the Japanese. The “natural state” of the Japanese might be laden with complexes about others, insecurity about themselves, or uncertainty of their own telos; the fierceness of the domestic talent pool was such that surviving it left nothing to face the bigger world. The Chinese were not plagued by such doubt; they had no doubt why they were onstage, playing the piano, wooing audiences.
This competition, though, her focus was squarely on the Koreans, who have achieved greatness on many fronts, certainly not least music. So-called K-pop stars, to Kanadae, possessed the same quality: an upright, affirmative passion—not messy, not overblown—and a kind of breezy coolness at it all. It was this passion and coolness, mixed together well, which produced that especially potent Korean star.
Then what characterized the Japanese? This was the question that haunted Kanadae, and many a Japanese star as well. The Japanese, she thought, were the answer to “How should non-Westerners play Western music?” Her own question of “Why do I play the violin and the viola?” were essentially variations on that national question, in her mind.
When she woke from her daydream, the performance had concluded and Aya was applauding fiercely. She looked at Kanadae excitedly. “Koreans really are something else.”
This is not the time for that thought to be running through your head.
Kanadae smiled somberly. A break was announced; more people pressed in. Next up was the Juilliard prince.
* * *
Stage manager Hiroshi Dakubo watched the next contestant.
The tall shadow, standing calmly in the dark. It somehow attracted his eyes.
Amidst the other contestants, so nervous he felt bad for them, was this almost eerily calm fellow.
When not working the competition, he frequently saw pros and maestros from all around the world backstage; this lad already possessed the same magical aura of seasoned musicians.
He could tell that the other staff felt this aura; it was evident from their slightly distant but deeply respectful interactions with him.
Anyhow, it was a very shall we say special impression. His size and physique were remarkable in themselves, but there was something to quicken the heart beyond his mere presence.
Dakubo checked his watch. “It’s time.” The timing to say anything beyond the absolutely necessary is an art in itself. The pitch and volume of one’s voice must be calibrated to avoid giving any undue pressure. As warmly, as naturally as possible.
The lad strode forward easily.
“Best of luck,” Dakubo said as he began to open the door. He immediately cursed himself: talking while contestants was walking has more than once caused them to trip out of sheer shock. But this lad had something that made him want to say something to him.
“Thank you.” The lad smiled briefly, spoke casually. He could have been stepping out for a walk. His smile lingered with Dakubo; it was as though a pleasant spring breeze had gone by.
* * *
The moment he appeared, the hall was overcome with applause and, underneath it, an almost tactile anticipation.
His walk alone betrayed that he was “something else.”
I can’t believe it. The stage lit up just with him walking in. Actually got brighter somehow.
Aya watched the “prince” onstage with disbelief.
He was like a movie star appearing at a theater on opening night.
A blue-gray suit enveloping 190 centimeters of elegant physicality. A bright white shirt with a conservative lilac-green tie. (Few contestants wear ties, actually.) Gently curling black hair. A mature, warm countenance.
The audience held its breath, watching him adjust his bench.
Out of nowhere, Aya felt a discomfiting nostalgia. It felt as though he was someone she had known for a long time. Stars have a way of coming off that way: “Oh, I knew him from …” “That voice must be …” How could she even describe it? Their existence in itself is a sort of standard. Some people have the kind of persona that will make them classics, fulcrums from the moment they step into the public world. Something that audiences somehow already know and trust; their desires made flesh.
Or that was how Maestro Watanuki had described it. Though her mother had been her first teacher, it was Maestro who had first taught her to love music. He loved all music indiscriminately, and she had loved her lessons. From Maestro’s home would flow all manner of music; she could have visited every day.
But Maestro had died when she was ten. A sudden illness caused a hospitalization; she attended the funeral soon thereafter. She occasionally thought that, had she continued her lessons with Maestro until and after her mother had died, she might not have quit music. Every instructor after Maestro had been perfect—in their technique, score-reading, advice for becoming a concert pianist—but none had taught her to love music the same way he had.
He sat on the bench and stared off into space. She saw in his profile a deeply thoughtful, almost agonized expression.
As though he felt he had their undivided expression, he launched into his performance with an almost careless brush of his hands.
How could it be so beautiful?
She felt, in that moment, the audience fall in love with that sound and with the person creating that sound.
Is this what it feels like to be hypnotized?
The audience was rapt, become a single being. The man atop the stage was not oppressed or overwhelmed by their energy; he seemed almost to drink it and give it back in his music.
How can a person—a person!—make such a sound?
Of course she knew, but it was another thing to witness it.
The fundamental of fundamentals: played as written, they’re not much more than background music. But his—so lively, so thrilling—
Each note was deep and rich. They weren’t presented as is; it was as though they were individually ensconced in velvet. And yet the yearning, almost plangent Baroque ring was unmistakable.
His ornamentations are perfect.
She was jealous.
The ornaments—not overflowing, not disrupting the flow, somehow placed just so, almost decanted in.
And how much fun he’s having. Not one iota of wasted energy. He almost appears to be smothering the keys, but each note is crystal-clear and the piano’s sound propagates to every open crevice.
Some pianists perform with an eccentric posture or style; the audience occasionally bends over right along with them. But his relaxation made listening that much more enjoyable as well.
He’s not straining himself at all. The music is so big.
As she thought, Maestro’s voice came back to her.
—He has a tremendous music within him. It’s so strong, and so bright, and just criminal to keep it locked up inside him.
Right. This is what he was talking about. When even was that. How do you play like this.
* * *
So that’s what Nathaniel’s fuss was about.
Miëko was watching Masaru like a hawk in the judges’ section.
The judges use the entire balcony; thirteen sit spaced apart in two rows. Miëko and Nathaniel sit on opposite ends of the rear row. Every single one of the judges must have been thinking about Nathaniel and his torch-bearer.
It was not such a complex expression—to have a grand scale—and yet it was so rarely felt, or so obviously felt as now. Talented pianists, emotive pianists are not at all uncommon. They all study hard and work harder, sure, but a music, and musician, of tremendous scale seem increasingly harder to come by.
This child seemed to have embraced everything within him—all his contradictions, his desires, his talent—and distilled them into an intoxicating elixir. She remembered her impression of him from the pre-competition party. Animal—even erotic—but elegant. Urbane and yet unforced. His sound—almost dainty and yet dominating. There were still countless unknowns, but his dignity, his nobility was more than apparent.
She also recalled thinking of him as a hybrid, and it came through also in his musicality. It was sweet, and vivacious, and soulful. The tradition of Europe; the light and darkness of the Latins; the order of the East; the energy of America. They were perfectly, naturally blended into the music. Each passing moment brought one or the other to the fore; the effect on his music was kaleidoscopic. Its heavenly magnetism made you desperate to hear more.
Long-time concertgoers oft shun the young and eager pianists with technique to spare, but Masaru was sure to appeal even to the stiff-lipped and professional.
The main level, packed with female audience members, entered her peripheral vision. Of course, Japan’s women are weak against handsome men and stars. Masaru was not at all lacking in popular appeal either.
The stage can sometimes feel far from the balcony, but Masaru’s performance made it feel as though she’d entered some Carrollian fantasy where objects pulled themselves toward her at will; the entire stage upon which Masaru sat seemed immediately before her.
Both his Bach and his Mozart were unbelievable. He did not rely on his technique or his sound; he seemed to have a thorough understanding of structure and pace as well. Not that Nathaniel would have permitted any less.
Or Maestro Hoffman.
She surprised herself with the stray thought. Maybe Nathaniel thought that Masaru was the true heir to Maestro Hoffman?
She almost looked at him but repressed the impulse.
After all, it was Maestro Hoffman who was the real hybrid. A Japanese grandmother who married into an aristocratic Prussian family; his father, who made London his home, a renowned conductor; his mother, a famed Italian prima donna. Grew up with diverse relatives around the world. A complex multifacetedness characterizing his persona and undergirding the musical colossus called Hugh von Hoffman.
Maybe Nathaniel, compelled by the child’s music, had decided to create out of him a Hoffman for a new world. And that would explain why he was so disturbed by word that Maestro had had a student.
Anyhow, Kazama had some competition at last.
Miëko looked at Masaru as he paused before his last piece.
* * *
Next up: “Mephisto Waltz no. 1.” The same as Aya.
Kanadae began to think. First Round recitals last twenty minutes. A Bach prelude and fugue, and then a Classical sonata. People would try to show off with their Romantic piece, and the program book bears out this intuition: most have chosen some monstrosity by Liszt or Rachmaninoff. Most contestants have eleven or twelve minutes for their last piece; maybe because the shoe fit, but five performers have chosen the same piece for their Romantic piece. There was one yesterday, whom she hadn’t been able to hear. The lack of any commentary online suggested that it was nothing, literally, to write home about.
Then it was sure that this performance, courtesy of the Juilliard prince, would become the benchmark.
Kanadae stretched so as not to fidget during the performance.
The Bach was elegance to primness; the Mozart, innocence itself. The prince now seemed the essence of flair. It was as though the pianist had changed. The cold intensity of Liszt flowed out of him and drowned the hall.
Performers with insufficient stamina or technique tend to sound hurried and noisy when playing Liszt; the prince’s fingers waltzed briskly across the keys.
It’s ringing, ringing, ringing. It’s unbearable.
Kanadae was blown away. Such volume made his pianissimi all the more effective, the crescendi and decrescendi all the more dramatic.
Glissandi carved with a laser.
Sweet and piercing and clear tremolos.
She’d seen plenty of people with impeccable technique and so didn’t think she’d be impressed on that front, but the prince’s technique was something else altogether.
Articulation with a crackling energy. A flair to seize the heart of the audience and shake it mercilessly.
The last chord dissipated and the prince stood up; cheers closer to screams exploded like a bomb.
The prince flashed a smile; placing a hand on his chest, he bowed deeply. His beautiful smile raised the volume of the cheers to a combustible pitch.
“Wow, he’s so, so good. He might actually win.”
Kanadae wilted as she watched Aya, fiercely applauding.
This is what your Mephisto Waltz is up against. Are you not scared?
The prince smiled and stepped offstage. Even after his last shadow disappeared, his aura washed over the hall like some incomprehensible energy coursing from a tear in the fabric of things.