9: An Die Freude
She focused the camera on Akashi’s nervous expression. With her view over the finder, he seemed even more tense.
“How are you feeling?” Hearing Masami’s question, Akashi laughed bitterly and glanced at her.
“Not great, if I’m being honest. I can’t remember when I was last this nervous. Maybe when my son was born.” He rubbed his own chest absentmindedly.
The crowd in the lobby was growing. Quite a few dignitaries—municipal, corporate—seemed to be present as well; cameras were clicking all around him.
In just a moment, the contestants who passed the First Round would be announced. They, with their loved ones and associates, stood around looking uncomfortable. It was easy to tell who was a contestant by the anticipation, excitement, and worry clouding the visage. They seemed either to pace or to hold unnaturally casual conversations with those around them.
Of the nearly one hundred contestants, about three-fourths would be eliminated.
The proportion makes him feel down to his marrow how brutal, how dog-eat-dog a competition really was.
Of course there was energy. And thrill. For a fan of classical music, there was no better show on earth.
Akashi stared dumbly at those around him. Others might have thought he was scanning the crowd for someone, but he just couldn’t find a suitable place to rest his eyes. Did I pass, did I fail. Watching him, Masami too could feel herself becoming more and more nervous.
Masami panned through the crowd of the lobby. This might be common to anyone working in videography, but behind the viewfinder, one is wont to become cold, detached. The sense of scraping the world. The detachedness could easily tip into a bizarre feeling of immunity, or immortality, and it was this feeling—craving it—that pushed the world’s best into more and more extreme environments. The tragedies in their field were why her mentors always used to warn her—“If you start feeling numb while filming, take a break”—but in this moment she was feeling too much, not too little.
The crowd subtly shifted, and then began staring toward one corner of the lobby. A cheer went up.
The judges were descending a staircase toward a lectern.
There are so many of them, Masami wondered.
The dozen-odd judges of diverse nationality processed with a calm dignity. Lights flooded them; cameras clicked around them.
The time had come.
Front and center was the head judge, Olga Sluchkaya, Masami recognized. She seemed kindly and smiling, but her eyes had a steeliness about them. An orange pantsuit combined with her red hair to give the impression that she was on fire: she was a presence. Masami wasn’t rarely surprised by Westerners’ appearances anymore, but that someone could be at once so regal and so intimidating as Olga … well, suffice to say she herself had never look as though she were on fire.
Olga took up a wireless microphone.
“Contestants and guests, thank you for your patience, and for a smooth conclusion to the First Round of the Sixth International Yoshigaë International Piano Competition.” Smooth, disciplined Japanese echoed throughout the lobby. People’s eyes began to fix on one thing: a white paper in her hand. The list of contestants continuing to the Second Round.
“With every competition, the bar only rises; this year’s contestants are the most talented we’ve ever seen. Even if you do not pass this round, please do not take it as a rejection of your musicality. We wish that you not be too disappointed, and try again.”
Olga went on, but people seemed only to be half-listening. Multiple people were tapping their feet just in Masami’s immediate vicinity.
Who will remain, and who will go on?
Olga smiled bitterly. “So I suppose you all want to hear who’s passing on. Very well. I shall read the names in the order of performance.” She unfolded the paper and inhaled.
“Number one, Alexei Zakayev.”
“DA!” A shout toward the back of the hall. A young white man was hugging his friends and laughing.
“How about that. The first one survived,” Akashi murmured.
“Why is that interesting?”
“Going first is a pretty big disadvantage,” Akashi replied quickly.
“Number eight, Hyunjoung Han.”
A flat declaration, and another cheer. A weeping Korean girl.
“Number twelve, Jennifer Chan.”
A bigger cheer; flashes going off. The tall Asian-American who people have said is a favorite to win.
With every reading, a cheer went up in various corners of the hall. Cameras sprinted about; the hall had gotten quite noisy. Olga stared distantly and patiently.
Akashi began to sweat. His number was approaching. Masami’s camera whirred to his left.
Wide eyes. Masami held her breath as she watched a bead of sweat go down his cheek.
“Number twenty-two, Akashi Dakashima.”
Masami would never forget Akashi’s expression as she said this.
He looked as though he’d been electrocuted. He was visibly reddening.
“Yes!” He almost whispered it. A clenched right fist. And then he turned to Masami and laughed embarrassedly. He seemed weak-legged.
“Oh my God, it happened. I did it. Thank you, thank you.”
He exhaled deeply, and, muttering to himself more than anyone, bowed his head. People around him noticed his fist, his relief, and congratulated him.
“Congratulations.”
Masami felt hot. Still holding the camera, she shook hands with Akashi.
Thank goodness. I can keep filming.
With him being the first Japanese contestant to pass, some local organizations came toward Akashi.
Overwhelmed but gratified, Akashi began answering their questions; Masami felt a surge of joy for him.
“Oh, gosh, I have to call my family. Please excuse me.” Akashi, still beaming, walked toward the exit; Masami thought for a moment about not following him, to spare him as he told his wife, and then hurried after him.
It was part of the job, but his ecstatic happiness as he spoke on the phone left her with a strange emptiness that she couldn’t shake off.
* * *
“Number thirty, Masaru Carlos Levi Anatol.”
Whoops and whistles—a roar more than a cheer—applause from everybody in the hall, not just the audience members but rivals and staff.
Watching Masaru receive his congratulations as though he’d already won, all smiles and waves and hugs, Aya found his sense of stardom oddly distasteful.
“Must be nice to be so popular,” Kanadae whispered in her ear.
“He’s a star,” she replied, but it was she who had been sitting next to him until just a moment ago, she who was his childhood best friend, she who made him who he was. She felt uncomfortable telling Kanadae, and anyhow, with her ambush of hugs and affirmation—“I thought I was going to cry from your very first note”—she hadn’t exactly had the opportunity either.
“But also, I know it’s an Asian competition, but Japan, Korea, and China take up more than half of the contestants, right?”
Indeed, the next few names were dominated by these three countries, mainly the Koreans. Aya herself sensed that Japan’s hometown advantage had dwindled—the only Japanese who had made it so far were a man who was the oldest contestant in the competition, a twenty-year-old conservatory student, and a teen-age girl. And Maya, but she didn’t count him.
And just like that, twenty of the twenty-four names were called.
The phrase “sold out” suddenly appeared, bright and disarming, in her mind.
If she passed, she’d be the last or second-to-last to be called, she thought. She realized that going last was less than ideal from this waiting standpoint.
Olga seemed to take a bigger breath than usual. Maybe hesitating? Or just Aya’s mood?
“Number eighty-one, Jin Kazama.”
Wow! A surprised but approving crowd. Aya was surprised.
It’s the boy. The boy who’s loved by the god of music. So why did Olga Sluchkaya just hesitate?
While she thought, the applause died down. People were looking around, but he seemed to be absent. Because the results are posted both in the hall and online, it’s not strictly necessary that one come, but still.
“And number eighty-eight, Aya Eiden. That is all.”
Aya was still thinking about Jin Kazama.
But the next moment, as Kanadae screamed and gave her a bone-crushing hug and others around her smiled brightly to congratulate her, she realized that she had passed the First Round.
“Congratulations, congratulations, Aya.”
Kanadae was openly crying.
“Thanks.”
The two hugged and celebrated, but Aya’s mind was still cold. Was this something to celebrate?
She felt someone looking at her; looking about, she saw Masaru with a thumbs-up and a smile from far away. She waved and nodded back. His eyes seemed to say, See? I told you things’d be fine. Onward and upward.
The show would on, as would her competition with Masaru.
A chill stole over her heart. But she was undoubtedly overjoyed too.
The show would go on. She could play again.
* * *
After the announcements ended, people departed the hall in chunks, ready for a break and a celebration. Reporters compared photos and notes and predictions for the next round; the veterans among them had known to position themselves near Masaru, or Jennifer, or Aya.
In a corner of the lobby, the list of those who had passed the First Round was posted; a crowd stood by it. The three-day-long Second Round would begin tomorrow.
Those with excited, nervous faces were those who would continue. It was time to practice.
Those with tired smiles having quiet conversations in the lobby were those who would not. Their time at this competition was over. They would not stand on that stage again, but they could not quite get themselves to leave.
In the hall lobby, headshots of the ninety contestants were posted. Staff were adding ribbons to those who passed the First Round. For each round passed, another ribbon would be added.
“That was close.” Inside the smoking room, Alain watched the ribbons being posted.
“What? Your nerves without a cigarette for so long?” Miëko rejoined.
“That too. But I meant Jin Kazama.”
“People were divided, for sure.”
“That they were. Not that I’m surprised, but.”
Jin had only received circles or Xs in his scoring. He had been the second-lowest-scoring contestant to pass the First Round.
“It’s thanks to you, you know? For changing your mind,” Alain said almost carelessly as he eyed Miëko over his glasses.
“It’s not that I changed my mind. It’s just that I understood him.” Miëko caved her shoulders in. She had given Jin Kazama a circle. “Anyhow, he’s definitely good enough to pass the First Round. Isn’t it shocking that he received any Xs at all?”
“What sort of lessons do you think he received? Who’s teaching him now, and what’s next for him? Do you think he even wants to be a concert pianist?” Alain wondered aloud, ignoring Miëko.
“That’s true. It wasn’t on my mind, but.” Miëko blew a smoke ring. “I can’t imagine him as a concert pianist.”
“Me neither. But then maybe he’ll become a great musician, a real Liszt or Horowitz.”
“If only.” Miëko suddenly had a vision of a boy playing an upright piano on an open-bed truck by a rice paddy.
“Maybe a laboring pianist?” Alain threw out.
“What the hell does that even mean?”
“You know, he’s an apiarist, right? So maybe he could make honey and play the piano. Or use his stardom to save the bees, or whatever.”
That would depend on his becoming a star. On the world accepting him. And will it? Will the world elevate, coronate, deify this boy who’d probably rather whistle in the woods?
“He’s really quite interesting.”
Miëko only belatedly realized she’d said exactly what Olga had, right after Jin Kazama’s performance.
“Interesting.”