9: The Rite Of Spring

Meanwhile, on the same day—

Kanadae walked into the hotel’s restaurant for her breakfast and then stopped.

Aya’s expression had caught her eye from the opposite side of the large dining room. Seeing it, Kanadae was slightly taken aback.

Aya’s … changed.

She couldn’t quite tell what had changed, but she was different from yesterday. To get an answer as to what had happened, she strode quickly toward her.

Aya was deeply focused on something. She was staring off into space, but not into the nothingness—she was staring at something very specific. Kanadae had never seen her deeper in thought.

While the other guests were bustling about filling their plates and refilling their mugs, Aya seemed not to be taking any of it in. She seemed encased in a perfectly silent vacuum, or frozen in some superdense fluid.

Kanadae thought there was something matured, aged in her expression. As though she had aged a decade, and accumulated a decade’s experience, joy, and sorrow overnight. As though she had seen a burning bush or flying chariot.

Last night, she had texted Kanadae that she wanted to practice her cadenza, and only followed up past midnight that she had made it back to the hotel. At the time, they had just set a time for breakfast and said goodnight; what exactly had happened?

“Morning, Aya,” Kanadae said as she sat down, making an effort to sound casual. Aya seemed not even to realize that she had arrived until she had spoken.

Daydreaming needn’t be a bad thing, but.

Kanadae felt oddly excited.

Aya’s realized something. She’s figured something out. She’s in her cocoon of music right now.

She desperately wanted to interrogate her about what had happened the night before, but Kanadae effortfully resisted the temptation. She couldn’t mess up Aya’s concentration now.

Aya abruptly reached for a sugar, stirred it into her coffee, and sighed. Kanadae didn’t miss her opening.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Just okay,” Aya yawned. “My head feels so full. I can’t wait to be done with it.” She shrugged and looked at the ceiling.

“Right, you’re last, after all,” Kanadae nodded.

No one likes being first or last. When you’re first, the judges are stingy with points; when you’re last, everyone wants you to just hurry up and finish. Of course, if you can give an amazing performance as the last contestant, you’d be the most memorable—but imagine trying to be the most memorable.

Starting with the Second Round, Aya had become the last performer. Kanadae of course understood the stress of waiting, the desire to get it over with.

“The more I wait, the more I think,” Aya sighed again.

“Hm?”

“But anything can happen after Jin Kazama.”

After Aya’s sudden change of topic, Kanadae realized she wasn’t exactly down about being last—she was down because she would be compared to Jin Kazama.

“Are you talking about the cadenza?”

“Yeah. I managed to get Maya’s cadenza out of my head, but if I hear Jin’s, I’m going to be all confused again.”

“Right, yeah.” Kanadae still couldn’t believe Aya sometimes—most people would just be worried about playing the notes.

In that moment, Kanadae thought Aya’s unsettlement at once reassuring and concerning: Aya was human too. But she also knew that Aya would be fine if she just kept her head screwed on tight.

“Jin and I both have our Hishinuma piece in the middle of our programs. Different for sure from everyone with it in the start or end,” Aya murmured, seemingly to herself.

Is Aya dwelling on Jin?

It was something of a surprise, but not a large one: such a freewheeling, lively performance. Prodigal if the word had ever meant anything: no wonder Aya was drawn. She may even be seeing something of herself in him.

But Kanadae also knew, from gossip here and there, that Jin was already struggling to gain backers among the judges, for being too radical, too disruptive. She thought Aya was better off worrying about Jennifer Chan or Masaru Carlos.

“You’d agree that people have so far liked the Juilliard prince’s cadenza best, right?” Kanadae half-goaded Aya. Kanadae still couldn’t believe the story about their introduction and reunification: fate indeed. And that makes Masaru Aya’s biggest hurdle to overcome.

“Yeah, Maya’s a god. The world is so big,” Aya replied simply.

“I’ll get another cup of coffee,” Kanadae sighed, and Aya waved.

*   *   *   

That same day, early in the morning, Jin Kazama was dozing in a sleeping bag.

Instead of a hotel, he was staying at a florist’s—a friend of his father’s. From what he had heard, they had met each other in college.

The first evening, the friend had been a little surprised to find Jin unfurling his sleeping bag in a corner of the guest room. He had prepared bedding, but Jin, after a peripatetic childhood, was more than happy in a sleeping bag. Jin’s father had told him to expect as much, but he couldn’t help but feel a little confusion, and maybe unease. But he left Jin be, and Jin was as easy a guest to have as there could be.

An international piano competition? We don’t even own a piano.

But father and son had insisted that that was no matter. After fruitless efforts to convince them to get a hostel or a hotel—the guest room was cramped and drafty—he finally relented after the boy himself had gotten on the phone and pleaded with him that literally a shed would do.

Breakfast consisted of miso soup and egg on rice; Jin wolfed it down and said it was the best food he’d had in recent memory, with such sincerity that he almost believed him.

After breakfast, Jin would slip out somewhere and sometimes not be seen until the next morning. Not that he had a problem with that—the shop kept him busy—but he was worried that he might have to give his friend a very unwelcome phone call.

While the world began to bustle to life, Jin likewise listened to the bustle and roused himself. He sniffed.

The smell of cold water, of freshly cut stems puffing verdant vitality into the air. Japanese flora, firm in texture and intense in color, scented by a certain mineral tinge that arose perhaps from the soil’s volcanic origin. Japanese pines and gingkoes had once been thought distinct species from their continental cousins, their smells were so different.

The florist was at once a businessman and an artist. His arrangements were well-known by esteemed critics, and he had a group of apprentices and students.

Jin knew the type well: the people working in agriculture, horticulture, botany, really any natural science dealing with plants, were all characterized by an astounding perseverance. In confronting nature, especially plant life, there was really nothing that humans could do. Try and try, if the conditions aren’t right, the plant just won’t grow. Trimming, pruning, watering, fertilizing—it’s unending. It’s truly equal parts science and art.

Once, when he and Maestro Hugh had been playing the piano together somewhere while his father was traveling, he’d said something similar: “Maybe music has a great deal in common with botany.”

His beloved teacher’s voice came back to him.

Day in and day out, give a little water: it’s a part of life, and it furnishes life. Feel the raindrops, the wind, the temperature; alter your work as such.

One day, there is a flower. One day, there is a fruit, a harvest. How—from a single seed—no one knows. It transcends humanity, but arises from the most mundane of tasks.

Music is an act, a habit, and, after enough time, a life. If you look (or listen) hard enough, you’ll find it everywhere.

Yesterday was fun.

Jin smiled

Moonlight. Fly Me to the Moon.

We flew and flew. She was really incredible. It’s the first time I’ve met someone who can feel that with me since Maestro Hugh.

How far can I fly today? Can I fly into the light?

Suddenly, he felt a pang of hunger, and he opened his eyes. He was very hungry; perhaps that was why he had awoken. He had forgotten to eat the night before in his excitement to play.

Warm white rice, a raw egg cracked gently atop it and thoroughly mixed in. A little soy sauce and sesame oil, and hey presto.

Jin scurried out of his sleeping bag and stepped out.

Ah, gosh—

He went back in and folded it into a neat stack. And then he looked at the pants under the sleeping bag; he had hoped sleeping on them would remove some of the wrinkles, but they looked even worse.

I guess I’m going to have to iron them.

He scratched his head, stretched, and then stepped out.

*   *   *   

It was not just Kanadae who had noticed the change in Aya. In fact, he thought something was off the moment he saw her.

Likely because of the fact that it was the last day of a round, the hall was packed well before the first performance. Heated conversations over saved seats were breaking out, and the entire left side of the hall was full.

“Morning, Ajang.”

“Morning, Maya. Kanadae, this is Masaru.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Aya’s been hiding her prince from me.”

“The pleasure is mine. Aya has spoken most highly of you.” Masaru bowed slightly.

“Wow, your formal grammar is perfect! I can’t believe it!”

Masaru laughed lightly. “I can speak, but my writing is poor. But after so long in Japan, things are coming back to me.”

“You’re a smart guy, I know.”

They all entered the hall. “Where are you going to sit? Toward the back?” Masaru asked Aya.

“Yeah, I want to sit somewhere where I can exit quickly. Oh, but you and Kanadae should definitely sit up front if you want to.”

“I’m good with the back. I’m used to it.”

They found three adjacent seats toward the back of the hall. “It’s packed,” Aya said.

“Yeah, I think they’re from the town. A lot of them are taking notes, too.”

“And you don’t think they’re piano teachers, huh?”

“Ajang, what did you think of my performance?” Masaru abruptly asked. He had been desperate to since yesterday.

“Maya, you’re just incredible, ”Aya said evenly, looking directly at him.

In that moment, Masaru knew for certain that something had changed about her. It was hard to say what—her makeup, maybe?

But he stared, almost rudely, and she didn’t have any on. No blush, no eyeshadow—not a chance. So an internal change?

“People like to say that someone is cosmopolitan, or worldly, or a fusion of whatever cultures, but Maya, you really are that,” she continued, still looking at him.

“At the end of the day, everyone’s using the same brush and the same paint. We each have our favorite colors, and a style we’re good at. Some of us make portraits, while others make still-lifes. Some people think this sets them apart, and every so often it actually does.”

Aya blinked, and Masaru’s stomach churned. Her seriousness was beginning to border on anger. Her eyes were widened, angry, even though her other postures and her tone were still neutral. All of a sudden, she did not seem as though she were looking at him, but rather at something incomprehensible, vast beyond compare.

“But Maya, you can pick your brush and pick your paint, and you can make them obey you. And if you wanted to, you could use branches, or cloth, or spraypaint, or lasers—you just don’t. You can do anything you want, and so when you channel your talent and creativity into oil on canvas, you make something truly incredible. It’s easy for talented oilpainters to just repeat the same thing that a million people have already done, but you—your world is just so much larger. When you paint with oils, the medium itself—the limitation you set upon yourself—becomes a technique, a conduit for expression.

“And, when you paint, I can always tell it’s you, regardless of the medium. Not because of some flashy signature, but because it just feels like you. But also, somehow, it doesn’t feel regimented or cookie-cutter. It’s like, ‘This art can only have been made by Maya. It’s so alive, so free.’”

Aya finished and continued to look at him.

It was the greatest praise he had heard in his life. He felt hot.

He remembered the piano studio, where he had been told that his sound was like the ocean.

I’m going to be OK. If Ajang thinks so, I’m going to be OK.

Masaru realized how absurdly relieved he was at her comments. He had never craved anyone’s approval so much besides perhaps Silverberg.

“I’m so happy,” Masaru said, almost to himself.

“Don’t be,” Aya said, looking confused. “It’s just how I feel. Ask your teacher.”

“I can relax if you can compliment me.”

Kanadae, looking on, began to snicker. “You’re like a child. Were you two like this when you were kids?”

“Probably,” Aya said, smiling bitterly.

“But Ajang, you seem different today. Did something happen?”

Kanadae started and looked at him; the moment he saw her eyes, he realized that she had noticed the same thing.

So I wasn’t wrong.

“Me? No, why? Is something wrong?”

Aya didn’t seem to realize it at all.

“No, nothing’s wrong per se, but you’re different from yesterday.”

“I think so too,” Kanadae chimed in, and Aya looked back and forth at them, looking more and more surprised.

“Maybe I’m just tired; I didn’t sleep so well.” She rubbed her cheek.

“No, I’m telling you, it’s nothing like that. It’s your expression. You seem more mature somehow.”

Now Masaru was sure that he and Kanadae had noticed the same thing.

“Mature? Me?”

“Yes, if I had to describe it. It’s an imperfect description, but.” Kanadae nodded at Masaru, who nodded back.

“Hm.” Aya fell into thought.

It’s back.

The darkness that Masaru had sensed flitted back. And then she jerked her head up.

“Maybe it’s because I’m having fun.”

“Fun?” Masaru and Kanadae asked simultaneously.

“Yeah. After listening to your cadenza yesterday, my mind was just bursting with thoughts and feelings. It took forever to process them and get them out of my head. I hadn’t thought that hard in a long time—but I think that was fun.”

“That was fun?” Masaru asked impulsively.

Fun. Music was fun. Or maybe the competition.

“Yeah, it was unbelievably fun. Took a while to realize, huh? But the premieres, and the competition, and just all being in one place playing together. ‘What fun,’ I thought. I think that might be it.”

She almost trailed off, as though she had been talking to herself, and then laughed gently. Masaru traded glances with Kanadae again. They were both curious, a little concerned, but Ajang seemed fine, so …

What a miracle this girl is. How far beyond our understanding she is.

*   *   *   

The competition was now over a week in. After so long—maybe fatigue, maybe the air in the hall, maybe the hall itself—it becomes hard even to tell the positives and negatives about the performances.

There were even times when you couldn’t understand how a person had made it to the Second Round. In fact, there had been a flurry of news items when several competitors who had made it to the Final Round of a much bigger competition in Europe earlier this year had failed to pass the First Round. Was their earlier success a fluke, or were they unlucky here?

And of course, there are conditions—how you’re feeling, how the breakfast or lunch was that day, whatever. In a competition, you get one shot, that’s it. No one cares beyond your fifteen (or forty or sixty) minutes of fame.

Akashi Dakashima was casually listening to the other performances. His first competition in a long time was reminding him that there were trends with performance style and repertoire, as there were trends with everything.

After the final performance, the results would be given. It wasn’t not bothering him, but after a satisfying performance of his own, he was pretty content to sit and wait.

More than anything, he was excited to hear Aya Eiden and Jin Kazama. And they were the two last performers, too.

The others seemed to be thinking the same thing: even the applause for the first six performers of the day seemed somewhat rushed.

Jin Kazama’s miraculous, mysterious music. He couldn’t even remember anything besides the feeling the performance left. The trembling of his heart, a sensation he had never felt before.

Bold interpretations don’t usually convince juries, but he thought it was a load of bunk. There was no way someone couldn’t be moved by Jin Kazama.

Boldness, individuality, character: that’s all we want, really. So how is it that it becomes such a frequent target of penalties in competitions?

Of course, as a contestant, he wanted less competition—but as a musician, a person, he wanted to see Jin succeed.

No—even as a contestant, he wanted to see Jin succeed. He wouldn’t feel right if he were to beat Jin Kazama.

And Aya Eiden. Looking at her in the program book, he felt weirdly excited, as though seeing his soulmate. He’d never say it out loud, of course—not to mention that she was around a decade his junior.

That cool, shocking music.

When she stepped onstage, you could almost smell crackling ozone in the air. The ascetic walking her own path. A nearly supernatural aura. His vision shuddered when she played.

He was happy for her, of course, especially that she was back, but he also worried for her. Would she start touring again after the competition? Would she be alright then?

He was sure the audience was thinking more or less along the same lines. Was this a phoenix’s call or a swan song? A kickoff or a nostalgia tour?

Regardless, he was happy to hear her again—and live, and as a peer, and as the last performance of the Second Round.

And Spring and Havoc. What would the two of them do with it?

He thought that this piece would make or break most contestants. Of most contestants’ performances, he only really remembered their performances of this piece, or even just their cadenzas.

Masaru Carlos’s performance—all fantastic, of course, but his cadenza was etched into his memory. The sheer power of it. A wall of water, unstoppable and overwhelming.

He was confident in his own cadenza too. He used the source material well, which was what a cadenza should do. It was creative, and emotive, and honest.

He hoped others thought so too. Most of the other cadenzas he had heard felt adequate, fitting the bill, and he hoped his might be recognized as a cut above the rest.

If this is my competition, I have a chance.

*   *   *   

The already-packed hall was overflowing with new entrants.

Jin Kazama was next.

Stage Manager Hiroshi Dakubo and his tuner, Gotaro Asano, glanced at the boy sitting in the corner; he was as calm as he had been before the First Round.

When he had first come in, he had been fiddling with a wrinkle in his pants, but now even that escaped his attention.

”Jin, it looks like the hall is packed. There are a great number of folks standing, too. How do you want to proceed?”

Jin peeked through the stage door window. “Wow, it’s really full.” He seemed to think. Dakubo and Asano awaited his instructions. They couldn’t wait to hear what peculiar, magically precise instruction he’d give.

“You can leave the piano where it is. If you could soften it, that’d be great.”

“Soften it?” Asano repeated.

“Yes, please. Not too sharp.”

“But the audience is bigger than last time. They’re sitting along the entire corridor. They’d absorb more sound.”

Dakubo chimed in as well: if he didn’t play with enough power, the audience would just absorb the sound and the music would be muddled.

But the boy shook his head firmly.

“It’s alright. The audience is tired, and the hall is warm, and the air is humid. The music will carry just fine.”

“Then I’m going to go and soften it.”

Asano went out and began to tune. The boy nodded and smiled. “Just like that, yes yes.”

He really is a miracle.

This naturalness, and during his first competition—such a prestigious competition at that. More than anything, his music was shocking and direct. Dakubo couldn’t believe there were still undiscovered phenoms like this boy in the world. He was sure that the judges were just as shaken by him.

The term “dark horse” came to mind.

“It’s a good piano,” the boy said as he looked out, eyes shining. His gaze’s intensity disarmed Dakubo. He had no idea what he was thinking. How would this round go? How would the next?

Would he make it?

Asano tuned until the very last minute. He was sure to be feeling some pressure to soften the piano as much as possible. He came backstage with a worried expression. “Is that enough?”

“That’s perfect,” the boy said. He held up his hand. Asano looked at the hand confusedly for a moment, and then pressed his palm to the boy’s.

“No, Mr. Asano! High five!”

Asano laughed awkwardly and then gave him a high five. The boy laughed loudly. Dakubo was so taken aback that he didn’t have time to say anything further to the boy beyond his customary “It’s time to go.”

“Yessirree,” the boy drawled. He stepped out as casually as imaginable. As though he was off for a light walk.

The applause greeting him was a single homogenous roar. Dakubo looked out and imagined a verdant wood sparkling with sunlight enveloping the boy.

*   *   *   

The third time Jin Kazama stepped onstage, he did not give any reaction to the applause. The first two times, he was stunned; now he was oblivious. He padded over to the piano, bowed briefly, and then plunged onto the bench.

The hall hushed immediately. They all knew he would start as soon as he sat down, and he did.

Masaru felt as though he had begun levitating ever so slightly.

The moment he heard his music, he felt as though each cell in his body had begun to respire and fill with air.

Masaru focused on the sound with all his might. It was a magical sound. He could feel the concentration around him—the effort people were expending to remember and hold onto this levitating sensation.

Debussy’s étude no. 1.

A bold choice fitting Jin Kazama. Masaru smiled bitterly. But it fit him.

The étude opens with a parody of Czerny’s famous exercises—an unsteady scalar fifth in C Major. But the “exercise” soon goes off the rails, and takes flight. The clumsy and uncertain fingers grow bolder, stronger, more resolute. The two hands move in a chaotic unison, and the piece that began as an exercise ends as a performance.

A veritable prism of color of which Masaru could only dream.

*   *   *   

Every phrase sounded as though Jin were concocting it before their eyes.

Kanadae was practically holding her eyelids open trying not to blink, trying to catch every movement of his fingers. She held her breath—her breathing was interrupting the flow of his music. She’d never listened so hard in her life.

Is this my imagination? Is it real?

Normally that wouldn’t even be a question, but this was no normal lad. And no normal performance.

Friedrich Gulda? Fazil Say? These boundary-breaking pianists were a mere simulacrum of this boy-god.

The freedom, the presence, the sheer vitality of the music. Absolutely inimitable; absolutely indescribable.

The second piece: a selection from Mikrokosmos. Something vaguely earthen, rich and textured. Jazzy and moody. Primal, somehow; animal, somehow. A child frolicking.

*   *   *   

Now this is fun.

Nathaniel Silverberg found himself surprised to be experiencing such unadulterated excitement.

Maestro Hoffman certainly did not choose him this program, he felt. The boy chose this himself. He had a prodigious talent. He knew exactly what kind of musician he wanted to be, what kind of music to make.

It is these self-knowing musicians who can truly distinguish themselves. A single recital is akin to a single album; whether its compositions are others’ or one’s own, or from all corners of history and geography, the selection itself is an art—what to convey, how to convey it.

And he’s mastered it.

Maestro Hoffman treated this boy as an equal, he realized with a dull pain.

Plenty asserted that Hoffman recognized their ability, but none, as far as he knew, improvised with him. Only upon this boy had Hoffman bestowed the ultimate compliment: I want to hear anything you come up with, no matter how impulsive, how spontaneous. I want to hear it because it is impulsive.

Maestro, how were you planning to raise this boy?

Would you be happy if your gift detonated? Did you expect just how shocked we would feel? Who did you think would clean up the rubble? What should we do? Who should raise him?

Bartók. Mikrokosmos. Tunes from the homeland, crafted into masterpieces. A crafting that occurred in exile, unhappily, yearningly—a sensation perfectly captured by the boy.

No one can teach him, Maestro. You’ve made him an exile. Are you alright with that? Do you not care?

Nathaniel asked these and other questions which no one would answer.

*   *   *   

At last, Spring and Havoc.

Akashi Dakashima dry-swallowed and awaited the next piece. His desperation, given voice, would have been keening; given physical form, would have been weeping.

What kind of performance am I waiting for? One that gives mine hope? One that affirms my interpretation? One that throws me into despair?

Jin Kazama’s Spring and Havoc began, still and quiet. A perfect transition from Mikrokosmos.

The dynamics, almost minimalist. Daily life. The same path walked daily. An open window, a new day.

Nature and space carved out a nook for humanity. Of course we exist here. Of course we are provided for.

Up until here, he has followed the score. He played frankly, without embellishment; it still sounds unspooled from the air itself, but it is smooth; it honestly can’t particularly be told apart from other contestants’.

But then he entered the cadenza. A glass seemed to shatter.

The audience was frozen.

The cadenza Jin Kazama was playing—sheared planes of sound—was a dark absurdity, cruel, grotesque, violent, savage. Listening hurt. Tremolos like icepicks through the heart. Torrents whipped up from the bass registers.

Sharp cries. Echoing thuds across the firmament. A vast wind across the plain; a violence impossible to resist.

The cheerful, natural, naïve spacetime of the music had collapsed unto itself, revealing a hurricane of a cadenza.

Akashi was so terrified he couldn’t breathe.

This was Havoc. Chaos. Disorder incarnate.

Nature doesn’t just embrace humanity, nice-nice. Since time immemorial, it has given tribulation and threat; it has driven humanity to near-extinction.

Spring and Havoc. Two inseparable halves.

Miyazawa Kenji knew this better than anyone else. His native Tohoku faced consecutive natural disasters in his brief lifetime. Floods and famine, volcanoes and earthquakes. Entire villages swallowed; masses of people begging heaven to cut them some slack. Panting and dying. Children and elders collapsing under the sheer burden of being alive. Space does not forgive; it just turns and turns. And spring comes.

Jin Kazama let us touch the void.

An apiarist’s son. Nature, against which we are nothing. He’s known this, felt this, more than anyone. The sensation of space, of nature’s wild energy. Everyone else had fixated on Spring. Not Jin.

A silent cry escaped his throat.

He is more mature than all of us. As a person, as a performer.

Electric nervousness. Deep pain; tingling ecstasy. Akashi couldn’t even describe how he felt in that moment, couldn’t know how he should feel.

*   *   *   

Starting with the Second Round, between pieces, the performer may bow, and the audience may applaud.

But with Jin Kazama, there was no time to applaud, nor did he expect (or want) any. The unresolved tension of Spring and Havoc flowed into the Liszt—Deux Légendes no. 1, “St. Francis Preaching to the Birds.” Much more common in competitions is no. 2, “St. Francis Walking on the Waves.” (Not many know that these were two different St. Francises.)

But the first of the pair was perfect for Jin Kazama.

Miëko felt an undefinable fear toward Jin Kazama, who had placed this piece after the impassioned cadenza of Spring and Havoc.

St. Francis of Assisi was a Catholic saint. Living in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, he had been born to a wealthy merchant family but abandoned his wealth and lived a life in poverty; he was said to be able to communicate with small birds and animals. That miracle was the basis for this piece, in which Liszt expressed the birds’ flutter and chirps as devilishly difficult runs, trills, tremolos, and textures.

He really is singing a birdsong.

The endless trills and tremolos pouring from Jin Kazama’s fingers evoked tiny little creatures of God whizzing and jabbering around this miracle of a boy.

Truly a saint patiently dispensing the gospel to God’s avian creation.

She had never heard music so ferociously “alive.”

As natural as respiration, without any hesitations or faults. Where did he learn such expressivity? He was fundamentally different from other contestants, she realized: he seemed almost to tap into another sense to augment the music; she felt as though she had eaten food with no smell all her life, and then someone had placed a bouillabaisse before her.

His music seemed to eliminate the score.

Why did that expression come to me?

What does that mean, to eliminate the score? What does that mean to the composer, to the performer?

She imagined music as a baby, naked and raw, illuminated by a spotlight at the center of the stage.

She felt her pulse quicken. She thought she began to understand what Maestro Hoffman had wanted—what he wished for Jin, and for the world.

But before she could articulate it, it evaporated. She shook her head.

A perfect gospel. The words of St. Francis become commandment, his teachings writ upon the world. The kingdom of God was bright.

She realized then that Jin somewhat resembled St. Francis. With no score, wandering the world, communing with the honeybees. He’s tethered by nothing, free to explore everything.

Will Jin Kazama become a saint? In this craven, noisy world, will his gospel of music teach us a new truth?

Miëko watched the boy onstage, bathed in light.

*   *   *   

Jin Kazama’s final piece: Chopin’s Scherzo no. 3 in C-sharp Minor.

It was the first Chopin he was playing. Masaru was excited.

How would he play Chopin. Masaru believed that Chopin, more than any composer, revealed a pianist’s directionality, ethos, philosophy. Melodies on one hand Romantic and popular, structures on the other hand complex and conscientious. How these two sides were balanced revealed a pianist’s temperament.

He thought Jin’s choice of repertoire were remarkable and quintessentially Jin. It was a natural continuation of the Liszt as well.

And then the landscape turned.

Well, this is a progressive Chopin.

Masaru smiled without realizing.

“Scherzo” means “joke” in Italian; commentators often point out how un-humorous Chopin’s scherzi are. But Jin’s was arch-comedic, but in his own way: dry, witty, pointed.

Was there another person in the world who played so joyfully? Someone who made him want to drop everything and go play too, to try to have as much fun as everyone could plainly see he was having?

The whole audience seemed to lean forward, to be closer to him and his music. To judge someone whom you wanted to listen to over and over again was a meaningless act. In that sense, the judges’ task here was less adjudicatory than affirmative: they merely had to rubber-stamp what everyone already knew. But people could also ignore, or be blind to, the obvious.

They’d have an easier time with me. I’m easier to understand, easier to rate. If enough of them don’t like his directionality, this is the last we’ll see of Jin.

Of course, I’d love to see his Third Round, but.

Masaru had been particularly interested in Jin’s Third Round program. In a few hours, he’d find out if he’d ever get to hear it.

Next up, Ajang.

As Masaru listened, he thought, Now, Ajang, what are you going to do?

He imagined her sitting in the green room. Jin Kazama’s Spring and Havoc was a tour de force. What would she do?

*   *   *   

A passionate finish. The scherzo’s muscular coda, easily dispatched; he sprang up at the last note like a coiled spring finally released. He smiled and bowed, receiving applause bordering on hysteria. The whole hall was on its feet, stamping and whistling. Jin Kazama bowed again and then walked backstage.

The applause wouldn’t quit. The audience roared and roared.

One audience member, a local resident, was sitting in the far right end of the last row. As he applauded, he looked to his right and started at the sight of the girl next to him.

A green stage dress. Clutching her dress, staring at the stage unblinkingly. She looked at him.

What was a performer doing here, without having changed?

The audience member didn’t realize it, but he had been sitting next to Aya Eiden.

She had been listening alone, not bothering to warm up, listening and listening to Jin Kazama. She was deaf to the roar around. She stared at the stage and saw only Jin Kazama, who had come out at Dakubo nearly shoving him forward, saying, “Give them what they want!”

Her gaze was cold.

Only when the audience began to bustle about, running to the restroom quickly before the next performance, did she seem to come to her senses. Still clutching her dress, she stumbled out of the hall and tap-tapped down the hall. The first audience members to exit, right on her heel, looked after her curiously.


© BSP 2022