11: Heaven and Hell
Wow, it’s a totally different energy from the First Round.
Masami, panning about with her camera, felt oppressed by the energy in the entryway of the hall.
Inflated anticipation and excitement. People’s very exhalations seemed to be warmer.
An absolute overflow of people—not just contestants, but their friends and family, local residents, press. Faces seen onstage in dresses and tuxedos now in sweaters and parkas. One could discern the contestants by their stony expressions and crossed arms.
The First Round eliminated almost three quarters of the initial batch of contestants; in a way, making it to the Second Round was the hardest challenge. But, others contended, the First Round was to eliminate wannabes and amateurs; the Second Round was to eliminate musicians. Ergo, surviving the Second Round was the most difficult.
The mood certainly was tenser.
Masami pointed her camera at Akashi, taking deep, slow breaths, in and out. He too was stony-faced. Of course he was nervous during the First Round, but he was nervous in a different way.
She thought he looked as though he would be more devastated if he was eliminated now.
“You doing OK?”
She casually tossed the question to Akashi, but his tone was stonier than his face. He smiled bitterly, and didn’t reply for a while, long enough that she thought he wouldn’t. But then, he said, “I’m so nervous. It feels as though conservatory audition results are about to come out.
“After the First Round, I was so frazzled, and I hadn’t even properly registered that I was in a competition. I just felt lucky when I passed. But now, I feel like a proper contestant, whose fate is about to be announced.”
Fate. Indeed. Would he be able to stand onstage again?
Camera flashes popped here and there. The judges weren’t even out yet; were they taking photos of the contestants?
After all, Masami was shooting Akashi, but he was hardly processing basic sensory input, let alone the fact that someone was filming him.
Looking about nervously, he saw other contestants’ faces emerge from the anonymous sea here and there. Masaru Carlos, looking relaxed. Jennifer Chan, taller than most of the Japanese locals—even the men—talking on the phone. How could they be so calm?
Of course he was jealous of God-given talent. But right now, they were all on the same playing field.
He heard a cheer. The judges were descending the same staircase as the First Round, headed for the same lectern as the First Round.
He felt his pulse quicken. He felt sweat erupt everywhere on his body.
The judges looked calm.
He felt a sudden hatred toward them. These people, who couldn’t comprehend how much this meant to someone like him—who were standing there because they were Masaru Carloses and Jennifer Chans and not Akashi Dakashimas—how could they understand how much more he struggled, how much more he had given up—
But then Olga Sluchkaya tapped the mic which a staffer had handed to her. He had never seen so many people so silent.
The tension: a fragile string pulled as taut as it would go. A balloon one gas molecule from bursting.
Olga’s opening remarks were much the same from the First Round.
The standard had risen terribly. Decisions were made on a hair’s difference. Do not take your elimination as a pronouncement on your artistry. We were delighted by the creativity of your programs.
She spoke slowly, easily. Her tone more than her words seemed to ease the tension one iota.
Twenty-four contestants in the Second Round. Twelve in the Third.
Who would remain?
She paused after flipping the page on a stapled set of sheets.
“I shall read the names in the order of performance.”
The same sentence as last time. Was it written on her sheet?
“Number one, Alexei Zakayev.”
“DA!” The same monosyllable. Unlucky number one survives again. Everyone looked at one another—but the names kept coming.
A Korean next, a girl.
Another Korean, a boy. Rejoicing, chatter in a tongue familiar and not.
Akashi heard a sudden murmur rise up, people whispering rapidly to one another. Faces of concern, of shock, of fear everywhere he looked. Everyone was looking in one direction, and Akashi looked too.
A tall, ashen girl.
Jennifer Chan had been eliminated.
No way.
Akashi felt as though he had been electrocuted. It was so moving, so incredible, so perfect. The audience, the cheering. Wasn’t she top-three material? Did she really fall? Everyone could be wrong?
Olga’s toneless voice echoed.
“Number thirty, Masaru Carlos Levi Anatol.”
A great cheer. He had lots of fans. Akashi saw Masaru thanking the people around him who were congratulating him.
And then his mind went blank.
—Number twenty-two, Akashi Dakashima.
He heard Olga’s voice in his head.
—Number twenty-two, Akashi Dakashima.
Those words would never be said again.
He breathed.
He turned and looked at Masami. She was frozen as well. He imagined that his face was like Jennifer Chan’s. And then he laughed—Jennifer Chan was much prettier than he.
In that moment, he heard the opening, arching phrase of Schumann’s Kreisleriana in his head. It was the opening phrase, and one of the hardest in the entire piece. But, in his head, he was playing it perfectly.
It was also the piece he had most been looking forward to playing in the entire competition.
Now he never would. He would never have to play it perfectly, even though, if he had a piano in front of him in that moment, he was sure he could.
The phrase repeated and repeated, a Shepard tone of a phrase.
He saw himself practicing the phrase all those countless times.
I’m out. I’m done.
Akashi stood in place and let the time go by. The contestants were called, and the cheers erupted. And he watched.
None of the names registered, until—
“Number eighty-one, Jin Kazama.”
An almost violent cheer. Was he just imagining the violence?
“And number eighty-eight, Aya Eiden. That is all.”
“And number eighty-eight, Aya Eiden. That is all.” She’s going to say it after the Third Round too, isn’t she.
Akashi looked at Masami again. He sighed and smiled. He felt lighter. Maybe he had absorbed it now.
I’m out. I’m done. I won’t be playing in the Third Round.
A staffer was giving information about the next round.
Ha, don’t need that anymore.
“I’m sorry.”
He heard Masami speak.
“Yeah, I guess that’s that.”
Both he and Masami were surprised by the lightness and evenness of his tone. But she also looked relieved. He stretched.
“Thanks for … a lot of things. I’m sorry I couldn’t make your documentary more interesting.”
Masami shook her head. “Don’t give that another thought. And I’m more thankful to you. It can’t have been easy having a camera around you the entire time. Thank you so much. Really.”
Maybe he was imagining it, but it sounded as though Masami was holding back tears.
“It’s no problem at all. Now, don’t you have the successes to film?” Akashi swept his arm around.
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll be back.”
“Enjoy.”
As he watched Masami walk to the sea of camera flashes pouring upon those who passed the Second Round, he wandered over to a corner of the hall and stared dully.
It’s over.
My competition journey is over.
He felt grounded. A few meters away, some contestants were giving interviews; they could have been a world away.
He was no longer a contestant. And though he found the fact unfortunate, he was glad he no longer needed to experience such extremes of emotion—at least for a while.
He could go home.
The moment the thought floated into his mind, he began walking away slowly and got his phone out to call Michiko.
What will my voice sound like? What am I going to say?
He remembered that he had had the exact same thought after the First Round. Smiling wanly to himself, he pressed her speed-dial.
* * *
The entryway after the results of the Second Round was pandemonium.
Why?
Because Jennifer Chan had begun furiously contesting her elimination.
Here and there, discontent arose, and noises of frustration clarified themselves above the din. But Jennifer Chan stomped right up to Olga Sluchkaya and demanded to know why she had been eliminated.
It’s true that absorbing the anger of contestants is to some degree the head judge’s duty—but rarely does the anger make itself so apparent, so direct.
I do not understand why I’ve been eliminated, I do not feel I am any lesser than any of the contestants who made it to the Third Round, tell me where you think I am lacking.
Her objection was from one perspective bold, but apparently there was anger beyond her own: her father (who was extremely wealthy and close with the Secretary of State) and her mentor Blin had made calls to the judges as well.
At last, it was Nathaniel Silverberg who had convinced her.
You have phenomenal technique, and we are not denying your musicianship. But this was not one or two judges. A majority of judges voted not to progress you to the Third Round. More than anything, you might think about why that might be. And if you don’t arrive at a reason—well, might that also maybe indicate why you didn’t make it to the Third Round.
Nathaniel’s calm but blunt explanation seemed to have touched something within her; her face crumpled and she began to cry. When she followed her mother out of the hall, it was nearly midnight.
“Nicely done.” Miëko had been watching Nathaniel from afar; she now walked over with her wineglass and patted him on the shoulder. “That child, she’s debuted at Carnegie Hall, she’ll be just fine. No matter how much she might have wanted it.”
“This sort of thing, she just has to figure out for herself.”
“She hated the talk, don’t you think? The next Yuja Wang and all that? I think she didn’t like being compared to people who were ahead of her.”
“I think you’re right.”
While listening to her, Miëko had had the sense that one Yuja Wang was enough. Apparently the other judges had agreed. Might Jennifer Chan not also agree?
“I’m sure Blin told her to ‘find her own style,’ God help her. I felt bad listening to her,” Nathaniel murmured.
“‘Your own style’ is a fantasy. People should quit giving advice that’s impossible to follow.” Miëko sighed and brought her glass to her lips when she saw Masaru walking over from one corner of the hall. Nathaniel jabbed his chin at him.
“I’m sure she felt his presence towering over her as well. She thinks of him as a rival, you know.”
“That can’t be easy.” Miëko immediately understood the subtext of a romantic interest as well. She hoped things stayed civil, or at least tidy.
“Maestro, you must be tired,” Masaru said. He stood a respectful distance away.
“How’s Jennifer?”
Masaru gave a quiet chuckle and shook his head. “She returned to her hotel with her mother, is my understanding. But she’s settled down now. She’s not the type to get hung up on this kind of thing.”
“Did you comfort her?” Miëko asked.
“Would I ever. Maestro, you know as well as I do that comfort from a fellow contestant does more harm than good.”
“You’re right, of course.”
“Anyway, Masaru …”
Nathaniel’s voice took on a grayer hue; looking over, Miëko saw the girl following Masaru who had darkened Nathaniel’s tone.
Miëko tilted her head. A small bobbed girl. Sweater and jeans, but familiar somehow. A contestant …
“Ah, Maestro, may I present Ajang … or rather, Aya Eiden.”
Nathaniel and Miëko nodded simultaneously.
“Congratulations on passing the Second Round,” Miëko offered. Yes, this was Aya Eiden: the phoenix. It was her first time speaking with her.
So this is what you look like. Never judge someone by their appearance, huh. A tidy, unadorned, pure child.
Her eyes were the one remarkable thing about her. Curiously large, large enough to be sucked into. Soulful, warm, rich.
Masaru, whose face had visibly reddened, said to Nathaniel, “Maestro, do you remember the story of how I came to play the piano. Aya, or Ajang, as I called her, was the one who took me in and sat me down in front of a piano. Who would have thought that we would meet again, and here of all places?”
“Yes, quite a remarkable coincidence,” Nathaniel said; his even reply belied his shock, Miëko could tell.
Masaru nodded vigorously. “I recognized her the moment she stepped onstage.”
“And I didn’t recognize him at all,” Aya added. The two of them looked at one another again.
“And it’s truly the first time you met since then? Or spoke?” Nathaniel looked back and forth at them incredulously; they nodded back at Nathaniel. Miëko ignored Nathaniel and looked at the two prodigies before her. Their auras were similar somehow. Even though their musicality and performance styles were totally different.
“I see. Well, you’ve been playing wonderfully. Especially your First Round Beethoven.” At Nathaniel’s warm compliment, Aya smiled and bowed.
“Thank you.”
Miëko worried that Nathaniel might start shaking. Because it was so obvious that Masaru had fallen head over feels for this girl.
You fool, what the hell are you going to do now that you’ve given your heart to your competitor? And your greatest rival at that? Do you understand what this could do to you? This is not the time to be occupied by some girl!
Or so he would be thinking in this moment.
But she also remembered how smitten Nathaniel had been with her, and when he was quite a few years older than Masaru was now too. How delightful it was to watch him be smoldering about behavior that much resembled his own in his youth.
Nathaniel cleared his throat. “You two ought to get some rest. You’ve been here since the morning, I imagine. Competitions take even more out of you than you think, after all.”
“Yes Maestro, we will.”
“Have a good night.” The two of them bowed to Nathaniel and Miëko and walked away. Nathaniel watched them with an uneasy expression.
“Good job holding it in.”
“Holding what in?” Nathaniel said, but his voice was tight. She began to laugh.
“It was like seeing some old patriarch receive his eldest son and his beloved and wonder whether to strike down their love or not. It was very funny. You should have seen yourself.”
“You’re too much.” Nathaniel crossed his arms and looked out at nothing. “It must be nice to be young.”
“You’re right about that.”
They stood silently for a moment.
“I didn’t think he’d make it,” Nathaniel said suddenly.
“Jin Kazama?”
“I really thought he’d fail.”
Miëko wasn’t so sure. “More people want to hear him continue playing, I think. And just as many people want to stop listening to Jennifer Chan.”
“You were listening?”
“I was curious what you’d say to her.”
The truth about Jin Kazama was, he seemed slowly to be garnering supporters, if not ardent advocates. But there were still enough judges outright rejecting his musicality that he had just barely made it to the Third Round, just as he had barely made it to the Second.
She thought it was fun. How many more fans could he get? Could he sway those judges who, after two performances, still rejected his music?
As she stood with Nathaniel by the elevator, she looked at him out of the side of her eye.
Could he sway Nathaniel?
The elevator arrived; the door dinged open.
Could he sway her? Was she appreciating his music—to the extent that Maestro Hoffman had?
She yawned. She realized she was extremely tired.
Let’s think about this after the Third Round.
She realized she was grateful that she’d be able to hear him again. She was surprised at this.
She yawned again, and stepped into the elevator. She leaned against Nathaniel; the doors closed.