8: Romance
Only after changing into a plain sweater and jeans did she feel like herself again.
Her own lightness—like some fogginess had cleared, like a semitranslucent film had been peeled away from her eyes—surprised her. Until this morning—no, until she stepped onstage—she had felt so low and despairing.
Dresses are way too stressful. I wish I could just wear something comfortable.
Aya stretched and yawned, and then, refreshed, walked out of the green room.
Being onstage already felt like a dream.
She’d been so focused that the audience’s reaction hadn’t even registered. It was as though a switch had flipped—her brain had been off between stepping onstage and stepping away, and she had no way of recovering her memories from those twenty minutes.
Two more contestants ahead of her, and then First Round results.
Or so she thought as she looked at her watch, but she still felt oddly empty about the decisions.
What did I play for?
She could only formulate that one cold, rational question.
No, she’d been cold onstage. She’s always had some cold, detached aspect to her music, which had established itself soon after she’d begun to play and which had never changed. Even as she played, she was two: part of her soul detached itself from her and hovered above her, watching neutrally, amorally.
But my shock from earlier—
Just thinking about Kazama made her heart drop into her stomach.
What was that excruciating sensation of wanting to play like Kazama, like a child blessed by the god of music?
She hadn’t felt it in years, maybe ever. She didn’t know she was capable of it.
That child knew. That child pulled it out of me.
Am I to thank him? Or …
She stepped into the elevator and pressed for the lobby level. While she was using the restroom and changing, the next performance had begun.
Anyhow, her levity and catharsis were surely because she’d been able to play, and play well. Practicing or jamming had never quite done it for her.
Do I want to taste this again?
She didn’t know.
Do I want to return to the stage? Do I want to put in the work to reestablish myself? Will people think that I already have? Will people think I never could? Am I ready to confront those people?
Listening to the women in the bathroom, contemplating the judgment that would rush toward her like some evil tidal wave, was—only a few days ago? There would be more people like them, surely.
Am I ready?
There would be more, and there would be worse. Could she resist?
She didn’t know. But she did know this: she’d just had the time of her life.
* * *
At the end of an inconspicuous corridor in the lobby, there is an elevator going directly to the practice rooms.
Aya thought that if she exited that way, no one would ambush her as soon as she stepped off the elevator. But there was one—gently curving brown hair; refined blue shirt and slacks; a very large shadow.
Isn’t that the Juilliard prince?
She cocked her head.
He’s really tall. And he actually has that aura that everyone talks about—that elegance. I can almost see little flowers flying off him. Twinkle, twinkle.
She was in awe. Who could he be waiting for here?
She instinctively turn around, but no one was with her—obviously. She’d taken the elevator alone.
But the Juilliard prince was still looking in her direction. Maybe it was the light, but his eyes looked misty—even though she’d never seen him until he was onstage earlier in the week.
She had a realization.
Oh, he’s waiting for someone. He thought they’d be in the same elevator as me.
She relaxed as she understood.
Thank goodness. Just for a second, I thought … Stupid.
Aya sighed and walked by him. As she did, she felt rather than saw his body turn toward her.
From behind her shoulder, she heard a hesitating voice.
“… Ajang?”
* * *
Human memory is a funny thing.
What connects to what such that it can pull a scene from some distant past?
As soon as she heard his voice, immediately her mind traversed years, leaping back and back like some epiphanic salmon, and yanked open a drawer of memories that had been sealed shut and forgotten.
This voice, this tone, this nickname …
She turned and saw a skinny, tall, untidy, fantastically curly-haired Latinate boy.
—Ajang, I have to go back to France.
The voice of a boy who was lost, unmoored. A boy who had hung his head as Aya had cried and cried and only repeated, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
A boy always timid and fumbling, a little lonely maybe, but with a sound as expansive as an ocean on a clear day.
Aya’s eyes widened as far as they would; jaw slack, she tried to find words.
“Maya? Is it you? Really?”
Aya stared at the boy, boring holes into him with her eyes.
Not boy. A 188-centimeter man with a solid physique and bright, kind face. He nodded.
“It’s me, Ajang. It’s Maya. I still have your treble-clef backpack.”
“No way!”
To be honest, Aya had always ridiculed them—the girls her age who’d shout or shriek or giggle, “No way,” “Seriously,” “You’re joking,” “Shut up”—pink flies, each and all, she’d thought.
But now those same noises were the only thoughts she could formulate.
In her defense, though, after ten years apart from a childhood soulmate and then a serendipitous reunion, could anyone formulate coherent thoughts while enveloped in their arms?
Though it should be mentioned that when they hugged, Masaru’s chin was above her head, and his harms could fully swaddle her. Compared to him, Aya was still a child.
“Maya, when did you get so big?” Aya slowly stepped away and got a proper look at him. When he was a kid, he definitely seemed Latin, but now, with his lightened hair and skin, his ethnicity was totally impossible to read. His pronounced facial structure somehow evoked a philosopher or ascetic and made him appear a little aloof.
Masaru burst out laughing. “Ajang, you sound like my grandmother. It’s been ten years! And anyhow, I still recognized you. You haven’t changed one bit.”
That’s a little much, Aya protested. I couldn’t recognize you at all.
Who could have thought that scrawny Latin kid could become this shining prince?
Masaru took Aya’s hand and held it tightly; her heart began to race.
“Ajang, by the way, how is Maestro? I kept my promise to you and him, but I guess you could tell. I began taking lessons as soon as I went back to France.” He seemed to have said it all in one breath. “My first teacher, some conservatory student in the Paris Conservatory, introduced me to a professor and I graduated in two years.”
Ajang was at a loss. “Maya, you really were a genius.”
“Yeah?” Masaru thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “The real geniuses are you and Maestro.”
As soon as he said this, Aya felt a deep sadness.
He’s right. The genius is Maestro Watanuki. Maestro, who taught Masaru as happily as he taught me, laughing all the while. Maestro, who recognized Masaru’s talent and praised him for it. And now he’s all grown up, with a life of music ahead of him. How happy Maestro would be if he could see Masaru now.
“Maya.” Aya suppressed the grief surging in her. “Maestro Watanuki passed away. It wasn’t two years after you left for France. Late-stage pancreatic cancer; he basically went to the hospital to die. He missed you a lot.”
Masaru’s face flushed with shock. His smile melted away; he paled.
“Maestro.” A gulping sound. “He’s gone?”
His voice was so young, it was almost as though he was a boy again. Aya nodded slowly.
“Yeah. His grave is in Koshigaya.”
“I want to pay my respects to him.”
“Maybe we can go together? I think he’d have liked to see us reunited.”
“Yeah, for sure.”
Holding Masaru’s hand as he grieved, she felt as though they were both now children again. Except for the fact that she had to literally look up to him, and that his hands were just enormous.
Right, but his hands were big back then too. He must have such an easy time with everything—he could play Rachmaninoff. He’d said that we would play Rachmaninoff. We should do that.
Maybe the previous performance had concluded, but audience members began billowing out into the lobby. Then Masaru really had been waiting just for her.
“Ajang, let’s go listen to the last performance. And then we’ll get our results.”
Aya started. She’d only just registered that they were competing against each other. It was like a bucket of water had woken her up.
Competition. We’re rivals. Twenty-four people to the next round. Twelve people to the Third Round.
Masaru seemed to be thinking along the same lines. In this moment, every trace of boyishness had dissipated.
“You and I are going to be fine. We’ll just do our best in the Second Round too.”
Aya haltingly agreed.
He’s definitely passed the First Round. That wonderful, enchanting performance. He’s a contender for the top prize, and there are rumors that the judges like him personally.
But what about me? How did I do?
A shadow of worry swelled in the corner of her mind. She really couldn’t remember anything about the audience’s reaction. Things didn’t feel too bad …
“Miss Eiden.” Someone called her name behind her. Turning around, she saw a done-up male-female duo—reporters, by the looks of them.
“Congratulations on finishing the First Round. Your performance was wonderful.”
“We’re with Classic Stream. May we ask you a few questions?”
Given their light, hopeful expressions, Aya thought that things must not have gone terribly. But their ambush, combined with her long hiatus from the press, erased any conscious thoughts she might have had.
“How did it feel to be back onstage?”
“What did you think of the crowd’s reaction?”
“Ah, um.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but we’re trying to get to the next performance. If you don’t mind.” It was Masaru who was speaking politely but bluntly, stepping between her and the reporters. “My apologies.” He took her hand again and led them into the hall.
Now it’s him taking my hand and dragging me places.
Aya smiled bittersweetly.
Behind her, she heard the two talking—“Wait, isn’t that Juilliard’s—” “You’re so right!”—and realizing that Masaru was the one who had stonewalled them. She was nervous that they’d start making up rumors about them.
Masaru pulled the two of them into a seat deep in the left column, in the dark and inconspicuous to audience members reentering the hall. She had been planning on sitting next to Kanadae, but it was too late now. She could go after the last performance.
“I’m sorry, Maya, I was stupid,” Aya whispered, and Masaru smiled without taking his eyes off the stage.
“If you don’t want to speak with anyone, it’s better not to give any comment at all.”
“Maya, you get tons of press inquiries too, don’t you?”
“I’ve said that I’d only take questions and interviews between the results of the First Round and the start of the Second. I think I’ll do that for every round after, however many there are.”
“That’s a good idea.” Classic Masaru. Already planning for every scenario. Maybe he’s already signed a contract with a talent agency.
Aya opened the program book and flipped to Masaru’s page.
“Maya, your name is so long!”
“Ajang’s name is harder.”
“It’s literally eight letters. Also, you’re representing the U.S.? Another reason I wouldn’t have guessed it was you. Aren’t you a French citizen?”
“For now, I can tilt either way. Juilliard asked me to come as an American, so. I’ll probably have to choose soon, though.”
“So you’re still underage, huh. Wait, what? Aren’t you an adult, internationally, if you’re eighteen? Is this something separate from dual citizenship?”
“I don’t have to declare a primary citizenship—one that I have to stick with—until I’m twenty-one.”
“And you’re …”
Masaru laughed. “Putting me on the spot much? Nineteen.”
He’s a teen-ager.
Aya tried to turn the page, and then noticed that Masaru was still holding her hand tight. He’d been holding it since the reporters.
“Um, Maya?” Aya asked gently. “Can you let go of my hand for a second?”
“No.”
“What?” She was taken aback at his airy refusal. “Why not? I want to turn the page.”
“Because, if I let go of your hand, you’re going to leave.”
Aya couldn’t believe him.
—Ajang, I have to go back to France.
She remembered the shock from the day. And then the shock turned to fury.
“What the hell are you saying? You’re the one who left me! For France! And now you’re in America.”
Masaru watched Aya angrily trying to turn the page with her fingers that were still stuck in his hand.
Is that really true, Ajang? You’re the one who went somewhere, not me. Sure, I went to Paris—but you went away from the piano. You were capital-G Great, Ajang. You were a genius. And then, just like that, one day.
Her hand was comforting. He remembered the happy times from so long ago.
Gotcha.
Masaru’s holding Aya’s hand was of course in part for his relief that he had found his Ajang. But, subconsciously, it was also for a suspicion he could only intuitively explain.
For if he did not hold her here, might she not go away from the piano again? Might not this Muse, with no ties to the real world, take flight and find a yet more numinous, empyrean domain?
Deep in his heart, a faint nervousness churned.