6: Hallelujah
The last day of the First Round.
Masami Nishima, from the early morning, had made the rounds of the contestants who were being featured and had just made it to the concert hall. She wanted to include scenes from that evening, when, after the end of the last recitals, those who would continue on to the Second Round would be announced. But she took the time to visit each of her contestants at home: she wanted to be filming Akashi Dakashima at the announcement ceremony.
The problem was that he had been crushed by the expected winner’s (are there seeds in classical music competitions? she wondered) First Round recital, but now he seemed more or less re-energized; they were going to listen to the day’s performances together and then lounge about until the announcement. His wife had classes and so could not attend. No one had said anything, but when his wife was around, she suddenly felt self-conscious and attuned to her behavior. She was happy to be able to share Akashi’s special moment with him.
Following the familiar path to the hall, Masami was shocked by the size of the crowd. There was a distinct air of tension in the air—no, more of a suppressed excitement.
“Isn’t this something? It’s packed today,” she said to Akashi after finding him and exchanging a few pleasantries. He replied, “It’s not much surprise—results are coming out today, and it’s the first real exchange of joy and despair and so on. People want to see it.” She thought she heard a swear under his breath, but his expression was placid.
Akashi, for his part, was working hard for that placid expression; since waking up that morning, his heart had been throbbing nonstop.
Am I going to be able to play in the Second Round? Was I average, below average, above average? Am I going to be laughing in seven hours? Or am I going to be calling Michiko, shoulders slumped, and saying that I failed?
His sorrowful thoughts gave way to a vision—him calling his wife—instinctively using a casual voice—failing to sustain the casual voice—that was so vivid yet so unpleasant that he physically shook his head to rid himself of it.
“There are a few contestants who’ve been anticipated today as well,” he added. Masami glanced at the program book and nodded in agreement. “There’s the honeybee prince, and also that Russian who won third place somewhere or another.”
“I don’t know if it’s the honeybee prince or just the honey prince or what, but I did hear about his Paris audition,” Masami said.
“Last time, the winner was also an auditionee, right?”
Masami flips through the program book and finds his page; Akashi peers over as well.
Jin Kazama.
Zero experience. Sixteen years old. Unknown to the world.
“He looks sweet. Wow, sixteen. I barely remember sixteen.”
“You sound middle-aged,” Akashi ribbed. But his eyes landed on the “Instructors” section—not to do so was an impossibility with an otherwise blank info sheet, and with the instructor being one of the greatest pianists on record. Would the sheer impossibility of studying with Hugh von Hoffman, and the mystique it would arouse, be good or bad for the contestant?
Akashi gently turned the page; there was another contestant he wanted to look at.
A photo he’d seen long ago. An unadorned headshot; two large, dark eyes looking directly at the camera.
Aya Eiden. Age: 20.
Two thoughts—“she’s twenty already” and “she’s only twenty”—fluttered into his head.
Though not as anticipated as the Juilliard prince or the honeybee prince, her return was not ignored among competition gossips.
What kind of performance will she give? Why did she come back?
Akashi was a fan of hers. He had CDs and had been to her concerts.
He had, just in his head, called her “the little genius;” other prodigies had something clumsy, incomplete about them, but her musicality was delightfully natural. Listening to her, he’d never thought “prodigy”—only “genius.”
Naturally, so inevitably, she was one with her music. It’d left a big impression on him, and, when he’d heard that her mother had passed and that she’d canceled all performances and musical activity, he felt not only shocked, but betrayed. That someone who could love music so, who had such a “gift,” could give up music disturbed Akashi’s conception of music, of humans.
But, as time passed, he thought that maybe it was because she was a genius that she could have given up without regret. It suited her, in an odd way.
And so, to see her return already half a legend gave him mixed feelings. It was like seeing some pop star say they wanted a normal life, only to return a few years later. Of course, he was happy, and eager, to hear her play another time—to confirm whether his impression and awe from so long ago was real, and, if so, to experience it again. He knew he could amply be disappointed, but—he was loath to admit—there was a part of him that was also stirred by the prospect of competing against someone he thought was a genius and being able to say, “What, that’s all you’ve got?”
Akashi looked at her picture with an unreadable expression.
* * *
“Thank you very much.”
“You’ve got this.”
Masaru smiled at the girls’ comments and returned the signed program book to them; they glanced at each other and skittered away, giggling.
He was gratified and pleased to repeat the ritual between every recital of the competition, but he did admit it distracted him from reading the program book.
The program book contained every performer’s repertoire, from the First Round to the concerto. It made for interesting reading: they said a lot about each contestant. Each piece revealed their strengths and weaknesses, tastes and strategies. Some made him think, This is just every piece you can play; others practically screamed, I’m going to put on a show. Some of them were impossible to scrutinize. Because the First and Second Rounds had some guidelines and limitations, the Third Round—the free recital—was where people’s characters were most on display. Chopin or Rachmaninoff from start to finish; modernists and classicists: it showed either what you wanted to play, what you were able to play, or both.
Anyhow, this First Round program, you’re either a god or an idiot.
Masaru was reading Jin Kazama’s program; his First Round was thus:
Bach: The Well-Tempered Clavier, Book 1, No. 1 in C Major
Mozart: Piano Sonata no. 12 in G Major K332, 1st mov.
Balakirev: Islamey
Islamey alone made sense. Bach and Mozart were hardly technical challenges, and so Islamey—a strong contender for the hardest mainstream piano piece ever written—was a strategically sound decision. With the bar for technical skill rising ever higher, Islamey, rarely performed in the past, was making several appearances besides Jin.
But the Well-Tempered Clavier number one …
Even those who’ve never purposefully listened to classical music once in their lives would have heard this once or twice. A piece played to banality is a bold, and maybe reckless, choice for a recital; in a competition, it could be suicide.
The Mozart likewise concerned Masaru; its popularity makes an unbiased listening all but impossible. Put this and the Bach together, and it could only be the height of naïveté or some all-in strategy.
Masaru was soaked in thought.
Wait. We can’t say for sure he chose them. It’s his first competition—maybe his teacher chose them for him.
If these are Hugh von Hoffman’s selections, then it could only mean that he has limitless faith in his pupil.
He must be something else. I guess we’ll see.
At that moment, generous applause greeted a contestant in a bright yellow dress. Masaru started: thinking about Jin had made him miss an entire recital.
* * *
Backstage, piano tuner Gotaro Asano fidgeted nervously.
In his mind, he saw the face of the boy.
It’s his turn now. And mine.
Asano was one of three piano tuners working the competition, and the youngest. Tuning for a competition is horribly demanding, but as a tuner, it’s also rather prestigious. His multiple applications over the years had finally resulted in his selection; his overflowing go-get-’em at the outset had been spent by the second day on nervous, frustrated contestants. He understood why it was said tuners got virtually zero sleep during competitions; it was physically stressful, sure, but tuning to the tastes of contestants he was meeting for the first time, with whom he often had no common language, was exhausting as well. He took careful notes during their brief, butchered conversations, but his nerves often got the better of him during the minutes he had to tune between recitals; between worrying whether he’d done that day’s pianos well and how he was going to make a piano sound “like butter” for some French contestant the next day, most of his time in bed was spent fretting and planning.
With concert pianists, there floats some industry insight into how they like their pianos—Pollini, bone-dry; Kissin, sharp as an axe—but no such information exists for contestants; all one can do is to have them try the pianos, pick the one they like, and then tune from there.
The lad who wanted a buttery piano hadn’t been happy with his, and let Asano know so after his recital; with this boy, who was now walking onstage toward him, at least they spoke the same language. Young, naïve. He raised the corners of his lips. The boy smiled widely.
“I’m Jin Kazama. Pleased to meet you.” The boy bowed mildly.
“I’m Gotaro Asano. I’m honored for the opportunity to work with you. I’m going to do my best, so that you can play your best.”
Asano said what he always said to contestants, and bowed his head.
“Oh, don’t worry about me. Do it however is best. They’re good pianos—that’s all I need. I’ll use any one of them,” the boy said casually.
However is best. Um.
Asano scratched his head. Sixteen, first time in a competition—or so he’d heard. He might not understand the importance of tuning.
“All the pianos have totally different touches, and I’m sure you have preferences about what kind of sound you want. And there is such a thing as a tuning that suits your playing. Why don’t you just start on this one with something comfortable?”
“Uh.” Now it was the boy’s turn to scratch his head. He hesitated for a moment, and then walked up to a piano, adjusted the height, and began to play.
Asano straightened without realizing.
That piano—it wasn’t like that before. How is he doing that?
The boy began to hum; Asano stepped back. The staff milling about also stared with widened eyes.
Love Me Tender.
An improvised performance. Using the chords as accompaniment for his singing. His voice wasn’t trained, but it was comforting and mellow.
But improvising and singing during a tuning session—it was a first for him, and probably would have been for the other tuners as well. Most contestants played their repertoire—usually some intense or tricky section they wanted just right.
The boy stopped playing mid-phrase. He murmured indistinctly, and then pressed his ear against the floor.
“Is something wrong?” Asano rushed over, but the boy raised his hand and stopped him in his tracks. He was still for a brief eternity, and then muttered, “Maybe.” He walked toward the back of the stage, where the other pianos were resting.
“Mr. Asano, can we move this one a little?” He pointed to one of the two. Asano shrugged; following the boy’s instructions, they moved the piano about a foot to the rear.
The boy now returned to the piano and played some scales. “Good to go,” he said. And then, turning to Asano, “Mr. Asano, when I perform, can we have those pianos exactly where they are right now?”
“I don’t see why not.”
The boy nodded and stood up as though he was satisfied.
“Oh, and, by the way. There’s something off here. When I played my scales, these two sections were a little bumpy.” The boy pointed to two keys, and then walked off.
Asano looked at the two keys the boy had pointed to. Most would not have noticed, but they were indeed “a little bumpy:” one was slightly sharp; the other minutely flat. He was in awe.
His hearing is tremendous.
Asano broke out in a cold sweat. Even the girl who had been so picky about her own sound, even he himself, had not noticed. (He was not in the habit of using a tuner; bringing one out, both were less than five hertz off.) He marked the spots of the other pianos with tape and made a mental note to talk with the piano manufacturer about piano resonances when more than one piano was onstage.
* * *
The name card was changed; the hall thrummed with an uneasy energy.
81 KAZAMA JIN
These days, following each language’s naming conventions, the last name was placed first or second.
Miëko realized that she was uncharacteristically nervous. But certainly Alain and Sergei, not to mention Nathaniel, were sharing the feeling. And Olga and the others would surely be listening with heightened interest. They would be looking askance at this boy that the problem children of Paris had unearthed.
Whatever their reception, Miëko wanted to know the essence behind the music of Jin Kazama. Whether her first impression was a mistake or not.
I want to know it for certain.
Miëko, with an exaggerated calm, waited for the moment to arrive.
* * *
Stage manager Hiroshi Dakubo felt the uneasy energy through the stage door.
Peeking out, Dakubo saw that people were still streaming in; the hall was so packed that people were standing in the rear.
Will he be OK?
Unthinkingly, Dakubo looked back at the boy waiting in near-darkness. Contestants try to read into every detail of the people around them, but this boy was almost unnervingly calm.
The audience looked ready to devour him in a bite, but their objet du désir was ever so relaxed, picking his ear with his pinky finger.
Is he a giant? Or an imbecile?
Dakubo couldn’t believe it.
The boy was so calm, one could forget he was there. He seemed more relaxed than the staff. A white shirt and slightly baggy black pants—they could have been his school uniform.
One factor Dakubo was mulling over was the hall capacity: with such a packed hall, the audience members tended to absorb a great deal of the sound; the resonance could also be altered by the people standing in the back and wings. Was the boy to be told?
Under normal circumstances, Dakubo would always err on the side of not adding pressure, but the boy’s levity was such that he decided to risk it; besides, Asano had mentioned the boy’s remarkable ear, and so the point seemed doubly worth mentioning.
“A moment, Master Kazama,” Dakubo said quietly and waved. “The hall is pretty packed; the people near the walls in the back and sides will be absorbing a great deal of the sound. You might want to think about playing with a little more power today.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you,” the boy said surprisedly.
They walked to the stage door and peered out the small window, lost in thought. Onstage, Asano was hard at work tuning the piano.
The boy looked at Dakubo and said, “I’m so sorry—could you tell Mr. Asano to move the piano we talked about back to where it was, and to move its front that way by a foot?”
“What?” Dakubo pulled out a pad and paper and passed them to the boy; he drew a diagram and passed it back to him. Dakubo rushed onstage and passed the note to Asano.
“Are you sure that’s what he said?” Asano looked surprised, but when told that the boy said so after seeing the crowds, he moved the pianos without further questions. The audience whispered and pointed: seeing a piano tuner move another piano, and so delicately, seemed to foreshadow something or another.
I’m running out of time.
Asano returned to the piano that was to be played, gave it one last examination, and stepped away. It was close. It always was, he supposed, but then he was always nervous.
“Sorry for the last-minute request.” The boy bowed.
“Is that OK?” Asano gestured.
The boy peeked, and then said, “It should be fine, yes.”
Dakubo checked his watch. Showtime.
“Master Kazama, it’s time to go.”
The stage door opened wide, and the boy stepped out briskly into the light. With steps as casual as someone walking to the corner store for some water.
* * *
As soon as the boy stepped out, rowdy applause exploded. The boy was so surprised that he stopped where he stood and bowed right there, triggering a great round of laughter.
He’s a child.
Nathaniel could only describe him as self-taught. Seeing him, he felt any venom he had drain away.
It’d be a relief if he’s not squashed by the audience’s anticipation.
The boy sat down before the piano and briefly bowed his head. When it was raised again, Nathaniel, glimpsing his face, froze.
What the hell. That glint in his eyes. He’s like a different person.
He looked as though he was possessed. He looked at the piano as though he didn’t, or couldn’t, see his surroundings; his being seemed to be sucked into the piano. The levity with which he’d stepped onstage had evaporated.
He began to play.
Ah!
Nathaniel—and the other judges—all seemed to jump in their seats a little. The audience below likely was the same. The whole hall was failing to comprehend what was happening, at a loss as to what to do.
What is this sound. How is he producing it.
Like raindrops which can’t sustain their own weight and fall to the earth.
Was there something in the tuning? The tuner did move that one piano at the back of the stage. Maybe it has something to do with that?
But Nathaniel knew, deep down, that it was none of those things. Tuning alone could never affect the sound like this. The boy was even playing the same piano as the previous contestant.
It truly sounds as though it is falling from the heavens.
Near and far at the same time, as though the piano was playing itself: the melodies arced and layered among themselves, somehow creating the effect of multiple pianists playing the same thing simultaneously for a surround-sound effect.
That’s what it is, Nathaniel realized: the sound had a fantastical, immersive quality. It shouldn’t be possible.
Nathaniel was shocked at the fact that he was shocked.
* * *
So nondescript and yet so magisterial. The music of the heavens. How can this just be the Well-Tempered Clavier? It’s as though I’m hearing it for the first time.
Akashi Dakashima was lost in himself.
Each note seemed to stretch on into infinity. It defied comprehension. Even with the packed hall, each note was clear as a laser.
Akashi felt a chill out of nowhere. A genius from some unknown realm. It was totally different from Masaru Carlos.
In a blink, the music turned from Bach to Mozart. The color palette turned a notch brighter, more luminous. It was as though the light coming from the stage had intensified.
The entire audience just sat, swallowing dryly, oppressed by the beauty. Akashi was no different.
His heart thrummed and beat. He felt himself getting hot.
Mozart’s melodies are cool and easy. Like the pure white lilies that blossom from the mud, the Mozart is perfect unto itself. One only had to cup two hands and receive the outpouring of light.
This boy. He’s been smiling this entire time.
Akashi realized now: the boy had not once looked at the keys. The boy was not playing the piano; the piano was leading him toward the music. And when the boy found the music, the piano played it for him.
Wow.
Mozart’s Piano Sonata no. 12 is the sonata which most exemplifies Mozart’s unique, effortless genius. Akashi felt goosebumps at the phrases. This was the section that had most awed him, those harmonies and lines which had been writ centuries ago. When the boy began to play it, he felt as though he’d been electrified.
He’s riding the Mozart into the sunset.
But then the piece changed again, and Akashi jolted in his seat at the chromatic tremolos pulsing from the piano.
Islamey had begun.
* * *
How is he producing such sounds with the piano?
Like a player piano, it was almost as though the piano was resounding before the boy touched the keys. Masaru eyed him with disbelief.
The Well-Tempered Clavier. This is nothing less than the pure performance of Jin Kazama. It was a standard, a monument. Dense and yet somehow ecstatic. I’ve never heard such a thing before. Maybe a little prim, just a dash of the academic sensibility, and oddly progressive.
… I can feel the music.
He realized it while listening to the Mozart. He played as though the music was occurring to him in the moment. Those oh-so-popular phrases felt as though they were being conjured and performed on the fly.
And this Islamey.
Maybe he doesn’t know this is a hard piece.
When most people begin a hard piece, you can tell they’re trying to signal it. They sit up straight, turn their necks this way and that. Even professionals. And then the piece becomes harder than it is, and the audience is forced to register: this is a hard piece.
But this boy seemed entirely unaware of that fact. It was just a fun piece, and he was playing it for fun.
Masaru only now realized what a fun piece Islamey was.
So this is what Islamey is supposed to be like. Every note getting its due—this might be the first time it’s ever been done.
He felt a tingling along his spine. He couldn’t quite believe the caliber of the playing.
When the number of notes to play increases, and the tempi get tighter, it’s only natural for the sound to get fuzzier and quieter. But the boy’s harmonies, his notes, did not dilute themselves one bit: the notes, each and every one, were filled with vitality. He wasn’t faltering one bit as he played—in fact, as the music intensified, his playing became even more charged.
Masaru realized something even more remarkable. He’d toyed with Islamey in the past. Given its melody and rhythm, even when playing perfectly in tempo, there were sections that sounded as though the music had slowed down. Always at the same place, one would think, “Oh, they’re getting a little slower,” but likely the pianist was perfectly in time. But one couldn’t feel that with this boy. In other words, he was perfectly hearing the piece in his head and playing even faster, usually in the hardest sections, to give the sense that the piece was in tempo.
It was a breathtaking pace.
The piece hurtled toward the climax. Fanciful melodies, incredible volume and speed, a sense that some semisolid was expanding outward from the stage to absorb the air and the space and the hall.
The audience, flattened by the sonic pressure, held on for dear life not to be swept away; some were literally clutching their armrests. It was an indescribable, rare brilliance. Tremolos like earthquakes slammed forward.
This was no music. It was an experience.
The boy struck the final chords and sprang up as though propelled by the recoil. He quickly bowed and sprinted away. Only then did the audience realize that the performance for which they had (for a few, literally) been holding their breaths was over, and that the performer had already excused himself. An awkward silence overwhelmed the hall.
But in the next moment, the audience gathered their senses, and applause and cheers that could be mistaken for a riot were unleashed. Nothing could be heard over the din.
Screams and roars, expressions verging on literal insanity. Many had sprung up from their seats.
The First Round did not allow encores. But the audience refused this fact.
Immeasurable joy. Stamping feet and hands. Tearing of hair.
But the stage door did not open again until the staff came out to change the name card for the next recital.