7: Moonlight
The audience crowded out into the lobby. Outside, night had fallen; one could feel the drop in temperature even while inside.
Aya involuntarily let out a sigh. Her whole body was stiff. Even just listening made her tense when the air of a concert hall was measurably charged with tension.
The Second Round’s second day was as remarkable as the first, but no one’s Spring and Havoc, and certainly no one’s cadenza, was as good as Masaru’s. Others simply weren’t as convincing. Their seeming lack of verve and conviction made Masaru’s casual elegance and power stand out all the more.
That Masaru had gone first that day also made an impact, she felt. Even while listening to others, she was making a conscious effort to prevent Masaru’s cadenza from polluting her feelings about the music at hand. But she had already accidentally memorized it, and it had echoed and echoed in her head for the entire day.
Would my cadenza be nearly as convincing. I mean, I have my interpretation, but with my improvisatory strategy, how could I …
The thought made her want to play Masaru’s cadenza. It was the first time she had ever felt something like this: she’d never felt so compelled to play something, maybe in her life.
Kanadae saw Aya fidgeting. “What’s up?”
“I want to polish the cadenza.”
“Well, do you wanna go to Mr. Hirata’s?”
“May I?”
“Of course,” Kanadae said, raising her eyebrows no-need-to-ask.
Mr. Hirata was a friend of Aya’s advisor and ran a piano school in Yoshigaë. Aya had gotten a hotel with Kanadae, but two other contestants studying with the same advisor as Aya had availed themselves of the hospitality of their advisor’s connection. They had both been eliminated in the First Round.
“I feel bad somehow.”
“Stop it. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to have you.”
“I’m going to call Maestro.” Her advisor was not only encouraging, he called his friend himself to let him know she was on her way.
“I’ll just go for a bit. You get some rest. Feel free to eat without me.”
“OK. Text me when you’re on your way back.”
“Will do.”
Only a musician knows that real practicing can only be done alone. Aya began walking briskly toward Mr. Hirata’s piano school. She was so grateful to have Kanadae, who looked out for her while keeping something of a distance.
She glanced at her phone to make sure she was on the right track every so often. The urge to play had become overwhelming. Masaru’s cadenza rang and rang in her head.
I have to bury Masaru’s music with mine.
At that moment, she felt someone behind her.
Hm?
She turned around, but there were many people around; she was on a major road, near the town center.
I’m probably just anxious.
Aya paused and looked a little more carefully, but didn’t feel anything and kept walking.
She found the piano school soon after. Mr. Hirata, with round eyes, full cheeks, and kindly complexion, welcomed her. When Aya apologized for not bringing anything, he laughed heartily. “If you have the energy to worry about manners, you must be taking it real easy.
“So. Here’s the key. The practice rooms are that way. Feel free to adjust the heat. Bathrooms are right here, and the water cooler and snacks are down the hall. Do you have any thoughts on dinner?”
“Uh, maybe after I practice.”
“Just let me know. That’s what I’m here for. And no, don’t feel bad. We’ll have something nice.”
Mr. Hirata left her alone and went to his office. She walked toward the practice rooms he’d indicated; they each contained grand pianos. She tried a few—they were almost as good as concert grands—and settled down in one.
Mr. Hirata knocked gently, and then put a tray on a side table. His delivery was composed of chocolates, cookies, and—she caught her breath—a thermos of hot black tea. She tentatively took a sip; it was the perfect temperature. The room had a window with white blinds over it.
Let’s get going.
She adjusted the chair and began running through her scales and exercises, rising through the semitones. All she heard was Masaru’s cadenza.
Before she even realized it, she was recreating his cadenza.
This is not easy. How did he pull it off?
She saw him sitting onstage.
That stillness. That darkness. The stars blinkering against the void. How?
While trying to recreate the cadenza, she changed course and began experimenting.
After a minute or so, she heard an unexpected sound.
What am I hearing?
Rhythmic bumping, as though something was hitting …
Aya stopped playing and listened.
Taptaptap. Taptaptap.
It’s something hitting against something. From where?
She looked around the room, and then opened the blinds. Seeing the shadow, she screamed and jumped backward.
But then, before she could sprint to Mr. Hirata, she thought she saw it wave.
“What the hell?”
It was a familiar wave.
She opened a gap in the blinds, and saw a boy take off his hat and give a small bow. She opened the window a crack.
“… Jin Kazama?”
The boy smiled and actually doffed his cap. Is his pointing at the window meant to be a request?
She opened the window wide, and he climbed in gracefully.
“How did you get here?”
“I just followed you.”
“Huh?” Aya watched the boy’s cheeks redden. She was glad her animal instincts had alerted her to someone in pursuit. Not that they’d worked quite well enough.
“Why?” At her nervous question, the boy laughed lightly.
“I thought you were going to play somewhere. And I figured there would be good pianos where you were going.”
Aya blinked. “So you followed me?”
“Yep.”
“Where are you staying during the competition?”
“The store of a florist friend of my dad.”
Aya couldn’t stop blinking. “And where do you practice?”
“The practice rooms in the venue, but those pianos are no good. I like playing where it’s more personal, more intimate.” Jin cocked his head. “Can I play with you?”
Aya had no words. His childishness was beyond imagine. She’d never heard of one competition contestant following another and asking to play together.
“You were imitating his performance, right? The big cool guy.”
Aya felt a shiver, which she thought went unnoticed by Jin, who was just looking at the piano.
Did he hear me play? I was imitating Masaru, recreating him even, but that was only for a second.
Jin sat down at the piano and played an A. Looking at him in profile, she remembered.
At the conservatory, he was perfectly imitating the Chopin étude in another room. He’s a freaking bat. A bat and prodigy pianist.
Jin suddenly launched into a waterfall of octaves.
Ah!
Aya almost screamed again.
Masaru’s cadenza.
Jin was playing the hardest part perfectly, almost better than Masaru had. If she closed her eyes, she would not have been able to tell who was playing.
She felt goosebumps. She realized she was bearing witness to a talent she could not begin to comprehend.
Jin stopped just as abruptly as he had begun and smiled at her. “This was ringing in your head, right? Mine too. And so you came out and you wanted to play it? Play it right away? Me too.” He said it almost as though he were singing. “So I followed you because I thought you were going to go play somewhere.”
She might as well have been a children’s book, she was so easy to read. He had understood her perfectly.
She recalled the feeling when she had first heard him.
He’s loved by the god of music.
And me?
Aya surprised herself with the thought that distilled itself out of her consciousness.
Am I loved by the god of music?
For a moment, she thought some celestial spotlight had turned and settled on Jin. It was being manipulated by the god of music, and it had passed right over her. He was practically radiating benediction and glory. She was close enough to touch him and receive the light, but she might as well have been invisible, or dead.
The god chose Jin Kazama.
She had nothing to say to the voice.
She couldn’t breathe. This feeling was entirely new. The feeling coursed through her body, stung every exposed inch of skin, pulverized her muscles and bones. Her mouth tasted bitter.
Why is the certainty that he was chosen, and that I wasn’t, making me hurt so much?
She knew the answer, she thought. It was because she had never properly acknowledged her abdication. Because she secretly believed she understood music better than anyone she met. Because she was afraid to death that she’d be ordinary at twenty.
All sorts of thoughts flitted through her brain. The pain in her heart still hadn’t left.
“Maestro said to me once. That I should find someone to bring the music into the world with.”
“What are you talking about?”
The boy thought for a few moments.
Do what now?
“I think it might be you.”
“Me what?”
At Aya’s repeated asking, the boy, with a sheepish expression, waved off her question.
“The moon’s really pretty, right?” He spun around and opened the blinds. The moon was in fact full, and very pretty.
The boy walked back to the piano and sat down. He began to play.
She had the sudden and unshakeable image of a butterfly flying toward the moon.
Debussy’s “Clair de Lune.”
It’s so, so pretty.
Aya, like many people, couldn’t help but look up and out when she heard this piece. In an otherwise mute, dark world, a velvety softness seemed to shimmer off the moon and make us our best selves.
Jin’s “Clair de Lune” felt like a prism dividing and speckling the infinite range of colors pregnant within moonlight.
I’m being sucked into the moonlight. I’m being enchanted by the moonlight.
Aya, led on by the swell of awe in her chest, sat down beside him and began improvising on the piece. Together, the music writhed and transformed and pulsed, a wave crashing in and draining out and crashing in and draining out.
Oh!
Aya felt a spike of joy so sharp she felt as though she had been electrocuted.
Jin was laughing. Mouth wide open, laughing, silently, and then not. And now Aya was as well. The moonlight swelled and swelled; the waves now become tsunamis.
She felt as though she could rise up forever. And then the piece changed.
“Fly Me to the Moon.”
She wasn’t sure who played it first. Both of them—it was the only way she could explain it.
With this kind of talent, Zuizui Zukkorobashi is nothing.
Aya smiled, forgetting herself. Jin wasn’t missing a beat; his improvisations were natural, effete, bold. They alternated accompaniments and solos. And when Aya gathered her senses, the piece had become the second movement from Beethoven’s “Moonlight” sonata.
Played like this, it really does feel lunar.
And then the third movement.
Both played the piece, manic and fiery, in perfect unison. Their synchronization was atomic; the music was like stereo sound. A high-horsepower motorboat screaming across a bay. Or a devilish jet ski’s thrill. The exhilaration of a single off-balance moment leading to certain chaos.
The next moment, Aya used Jin’s “Moonlight” to play the melody of “How High the Moon.” Jin played along, and then joined her in the song.
As fast as she could imagine.
Jin hammered in sixteenth notes faster than she could think. Aya matched him with hop-hopping glissandi.
They soared higher and higher. Aya found herself looking at the ceiling as she played. She imagined the moon beyond it.
Let’s fly there. No, let’s fly beyond it.
The two were indeed soaring through deep space. A space, pitch-black, beyond competitions or any gods of music.
Oh!
Aya noticed a single sparkling point standing against the limitless darkness.
There. My Spring and Havoc. There it is.
Even when they finished playing—soulfully, pianissimo—Aya couldn’t stop looking up.