4: Masquerade
It was fun.
Of course Masaru had charmed his audience into oblivion, and the audience still hadn’t calmed down, fifteen minutes after he’d left, but that was the phrase that popped into Aya’s head.
Not “It was great, it was perfect,” but “It was fun.”
Of course, it was all fun, but the Liszt sonata really was something else.
Aya knew that Masaru had envisioned it as a story, a narrative; she couldn’t discern any specifics, but listening to the way he played each theme, like they were all from different pieces and had been fused together, was like watching a play.
From the time when they had compared the images behind their Prokofiev concerti—hers, a noir masterpiece; his, a space odyssey—she knew that Masaru could be trusted to tell a good story.
Yes, this fun—it came from listening to someone whose music you knew.
It had only been a few minutes since they had reunified, but Aya thought she could see into the fire that drove Masaru, what was at his core. It helped that they were similar, of course.
She had played in bands, and played alongside friends in conservatory. When playing together, or listening to people she worked with, she had frequently had the feeling of knowing those people, as though she were unwinding their souls and examining the fibers.
But listening to Masaru was different. Hearing how much fun he was having was different. Some of it must be credited to Masaru being such an independent, unique, endlessly captivating, and utterly superb musician. His repertoire, his program, his touch and tone said that much, anyone could tell.
But that wasn’t all—a fact she only noticed after watching the audience glaze over while listening to his music. Masaru was special. He felt like her shadow—and not in a bad way; more in the manner of being her negative, of being indelibly a part of her. It was the first time she had thought of someone that way.
She was not just unspooling and examining his soul. She was unspooling and examining it to find that it was a perfect mirror image of her own.
Am I in love?
The thought disrupted her reverie.
Well. He’s “cool,” probably—no, definitely— popular. Any girl would want to be close with him. Maybe I was just charmed by him.
It wasn’t the worst explanation. But she knew there was more. It wasn’t excitement, or butterflies, or whatever. Listening to him was like a benevolent, safe version of her onstage dissociation.
He played differently, very differently from her—that was not in question. But truly, when he played, she imagined that she herself was playing. It was a feeling of intimately knowing a person, knowing how they are feeling in that very moment as they are playing.
She needed only to recall Jin Kazama’s performance. It was a similar degree of joy, of ecstasy. How could she forget their “Clair de Lune.” The excitement, the synchronicity of playing together—she’d never had that with anyone else. A locus of gravity centered between the two of them, sucking her inward and inward.
But it was just a moment—a burst of passion as they played. Closer to an accident. Looking back at it, she could regard it analytically, coolly—absorb, if not comprehend, his genius.
A genius she could comprehend, and a genius she couldn’t. Masaru’s benevolent, arch-classical, expressive musicality; Jin Kazama’s freewheeling, at times ice-cold musicality. Earth and heaven; man and god.
Aya thought that, if listening to others had always been this much fun, she ought to have listened in to more competitions. So many different pieces, so many different styles.
Not that they’re all, or even any of them are, Masarus and Jins, but still.
* * *
As with the First and Second Rounds, he could only feel bad for the contestant coming after Masaru. Despite the hour-long recital, the applause and attention seemed at most half-intensity; most were still thinking about Masaru.
But by the Third Round, they were all impressive. The next contestant, a young Frenchman, was indubitably impressive.
He seemed to have gathered up the most colorful music of his homeland: Debussy and Ravel. It was as much an exercise in patriotism as music and color.
The French do have a certain style, Akashi thought to himself. It might be his prejudice, but their music is always translucent, rich without being noxious. A cheap comparison, but their playing was impressionistic rather than declamatory; they were very strong at expressing themselves, but sometimes expressed themselves when the occasion called for restraint and directness.
The world may be thoroughly global, but one cannot escape one’s roots, he thought.
And what of my roots? Are they the leaves my silkworms ate?
Do my listeners hear the gentle chomping of silkworms?
He daydreamed, and maybe fell asleep; when he came to, the last contestant of the day was about to take the stage.
He was a tall, thin Chinese lad. Standing ramrod straight, as though he had been cultivated to do so; his cheekbones were pronounced, and his eyes were sharp.
And here’s someone who has grown up with a sense of his homeland’s vastness and history.
The open heavens, the endless peaks, the vast plains.
I hadn’t even realized he was a contestant.
With Jennifer Chan and some others taking much of his attention, he hadn’t even noticed this contestant, but his Beethoven was dense and resonant; his music was somehow bold and understated at the same time.
Reading his bio, Akashi noted that he had studied in an American conservatory, and spent most of his life there as well. America and China—more similar than either are willing to admit.
But the blood flowing in his veins was certainly Eurasian; it was of a certain nobility, not at all the brash, genial, American.
The funny thing was, the First and Second Rounds had given him the impression that the world had perfectly homogenized; he had almost never “felt” a contestant’s background from their performance. But now, he saw: musicians of any caliber not only betray, but leverage, their backgrounds.
Music is just lovely. Truly a universal language.
He had already forgotten his sadness at his elimination.
* * *
The first day of the Third Round: over.
People pouring out of the hall, rubbing eyes, stretching and yawning. For many, over nine hours of music or waiting.
But Kanadae liked this phase of the competition best. Like the late middlegame to the endgame of a chess match. Openings and setups were long past; the fundamental strategies were out in the open. Now it was about being well-prepared, not making mistakes, and collecting the dividends of your preparation.
The propriety of judging and ranking music aside, the sheer drama appealed to her.
“It was fun,” Aya said casually beside her. “Now that I know all the contestants and their styles, seeing them at their most free, their most creative, it’s just tons of fun.”
“Kanadae, whom did you like?” Aya asked as she peered at her. Kanadae guessed that she wasn’t just asking out of politeness: Aya trusted the keenness of her hearing, the precision of her judgment.
“Hm. Well, of course, I feel bad for Alexei. But everyone else did their best. I liked all of them.”
“Mm.”
They both sighed. “This isn’t new, but I feel bad for them, you know? They’re all so good. Of course, it’d be no good or fun to win a competition where everyone else is bad, but,” Kanadae murmured.
“That’s true.” Aya didn’t even seem remotely concerned that Kanadae couldn’t comb out her competitors. She’d always been calm, but this was even more unnerving.
“But no matter what, Masaru’s a star. I just want to keep on listening to him. And you can’t deny his looks, too.”
“Yeah. That’s important,” Aya agreed, and after a look from Kanadae, said, “Wanting to keep on listening to him, that is.”
“Every piece of his was just so, so good. It was the first time I’d heard Sibelius’s piano music, but it was very Masaru. Bold as hell, but very him.”
“It’s easy for it to feel, like, prim? Out of touch?”
“I get you, yeah.”
“The Chinese guy at the end was good too.”
“He was! I had no idea what he was going to do next. A dark horse, really; I thought he was worth keeping an eye on during the first two rounds, but now …”
Kanadae eyed Masaru signing programs, shirts, arms, and everything else that could be brought before him in one corner of the lobby.
“Talk about Mr. Charmer.”
“People have good taste.”
They watched him smile and sign and pose for a moment longer. And then Kanadae asked, “Aya, do you want to practice at Mr. Hirata’s?”
Aya checked the clock. “Hm …” She thought. “Nah. I’m good.”
“Really? You just sprinted over there last time.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Aya said, slightly surprised. “I just desperately wanted to play then. Maybe it’s because I was still unsure of my cadenza, but.” Her vision searched nothingness. “For whatever reason, I’m not in the mood. Maybe this is my body telling me I’m ready.”
Kanadae watched Aya; she worried that Aya was taking it too easy, having too much fun, listening to too many of her fellow contestants and losing her own music. Relaxing was good—but not even touching a piano for the day beyond simple exercises in the morning?
The First and Second Rounds had convinced her that Aya was the same prodigy she always had been. But, watching her now, Kanadae wondered whether her initial abdication might not have been a deeper expression of her temperament than people had realized. Aya’s mother’s death was tragic, but maybe it had only hastened the inevitable: that Aya, hero if there ever were one, would reject the hero’s call, the music’s call.
Aya, she realized, still wasn’t fully back into live performance. She looked at Aya’s eyes: dull, unfocused, blank. Aya made the face more often than she knew: when she decided to enter the competition; when she was choosing her stage dresses; when she had arrived at the hall. During all those times, her mind had been elsewhere—somewhere she could not hold her, somewhere she could not approach her.
If that somewhere was the dimension of music, the dimension of art, that would at least be a relief—but Kanadae didn’t think that was the case.
A nagging nervousness and worry welled in her. She feared that Aya had spent too much time in the audience and found that she rather liked it. Not concerned about the stage, not interested in it, casually walking away from it.
“Ajang.”
From far away, Masaru had spotted them; he was walking toward them now.
Twinkle twinkle, little prince. Every time Kanadae saw him, she was again captivated by his aura; in the soft glow of the hall against the darkness outside, he seemed literally luminous.
“Maya, congratulations. You sounded amazing.”
“Really? Glad to hear it,” Masaru said, smiling broadly. He seemed to trust Aya unquestioningly; they understood each other, fit each other, were each other. Kanadae found her disbelief at their fateful encounter only increasing with time, not lessening.
“I thought it was very you when I read your program, but I felt it even more listening to you. It couldn’t have been better.”
“That’s a relief. How was the Sibelius? Not too sweet?”
“I’m telling you, it was perfect. The perfection of the saccharine concentration—it was chemistry, almost. Maybe dryness is the idiom of our time, but we all need a little sweetness.”
“I knew you would understand.”
Kanadae watched them chat with an eminent coldness. She of course envied their bottomless talent and limitless potential, but she also felt a curdling contempt toward them. They were suffused with the sort of naïveté that only geniuses could have; she looked at them, happy and chattering, and wondered whether their music could ever contain the pathos found in those who have suffered for their craft.
“Ajang, let’s go eat. I’m hungry.” Masaru stretched hugely.
“Me too. I’ve just been listening, but I’m starving. Kanadae, what should we eat?”
“How about curry?” Kanadae tossed.
“Curry’s a great idea,” Aya replied.
“I’m down,” Masaru chimed in.
“But nothing too spicy—you don’t want to get sick before your performances,” Kanadae warned.
“God, I want something that’ll incinerate me,” Masaru sighed.
“Do you like spicy food, Maya?”
“Quite a bit. I read about this amazing ramen place in a Tokyo guidebook—apparently they have the best fire ramen in the city? And they just put a huge scoop of chili oil in it? I really, really want to try it.”
“We know what fire ramen is, Masaru, we live here,” Kanadae chided.
Walking to the curry shop, Kanadae reflected on thinking that Masaru’s presence would be good for Aya. Most contestants, Aya didn’t even notice; a childhood friend turned musical genius, turned handsome six-foot tall man, turned multilingual, multi-instrumental hybrid, however, might drive Aya back to the stage, back to music, with a passion.
And to some degree, he has. But perhaps they were too similar for Aya to be motivated by him, to be together with him.
Aya didn’t see him as a rival, Kanadae thought. Masaru, though, in some part of him, sought greatness, and there can only be one sun.
“Where’s Jin?”
Only a few blocks away from the hall did Aya seem to notice the boy’s absence.
“I don’t know, I didn’t see him today,” Masaru said.
“Me neither. I’m sure he heard all the performances, but …”
Maybe I’m wrong, Kanadae thought. Maybe the one to bring her to the piano is the god-child.
She conjured the image of the boy in his rumpled shirt and wrinkled pants.
* * *
While Aya and company were off getting curry, Jin Kazama was watching his host—Mr. Dogashi, his father’s old friend—cut flowers with a deftness that suggested he had been born with scissors in his hands.
“Jin, have you had dinner?”
Jin seemed not to hear; he had been totally enthralled by the scissors’ cutting and trimming. Only when the motion stopped did Jin snap out of his reverie; looking at the boy’s glassy eyes, Dogashi felt a jolt of dark fear.
“Huh? Oh, yes, I ate.”
His eyes brightened, and the boy turned his entire body toward him as he smiled.
Dogashi felt better.
* * *
A few days after Jin arrived, he asked to be taught to arrange flowers.
Dogashi wasn’t often home, spending his days from sunup to past sundown at either his flower shop or his studio. But it was the only request of an old friend’s son during his stay, and he didn’t want Jin to return to his father and say that he had barely seen his host. So, when a late-night appointment had canceled, he offered Jin a chance to come by his studio.
Dogashi knew that aspiring stars cut their teeth at Yoshigaë’s competition, but he wasn’t familiar with Jin’s ability, nor did he know that Jin was the talk of the competition. He had just heard from his family that he had made it to the Third Round—one of twelve, out of over ninety initial contestants.
Had Jin been eliminated early on, perhaps he would only have seen him once or twice; he counted Jin’s continued participation a blessing and opportunity for him as well.
At the appointed hour, Jin ran into the studio with an onigiri from the convenience store, so he hadn’t been lying when he had said he had eaten.
I wonder how marvelous his playing is.
The moment the two of them had collected themselves in his studio, Dogashi had had the subliminal sense that Jin was a ferocious artist, perhaps even more than him.
It was actually a rarity for an artist of floral arrangements also to run a flower shop; it would be akin to a pianist also running a piano workshop and factory, he thought.
Dogashi thought himself a painter with nature as his medium, rather than someone working in floral arrangements. His specialty—evoking landscapes with floral arrangements, expressively rather than symbolically (with craggy arrangements of angularly petaled flowers for mountains, or lush green-toned flowers with soft, light-catching leaves for meadows)—was rarely practiced, and he had fortuitously been preparing for a massive commission for which he would have to spend all night preparing for the next morning’s delivery. So Jin’s request to be taught floral arrangements could not have come at a better time; he would have the chance to place one or two if he so wished, and Dogashi wouldn’t mind the company during the long process of building the arrangement.
“When you cut, Jin,” Dogashi began, “be sure to apply enough force to make a clean cut. It’s like cutting through a thick cut of meat: strong, confident cuts make the cleanest cuts.”
Jin received the scissors and made precise, powerful cuts; he imagined a samurai’s sword cutting through fruits. He was a natural.
Watching Jin, he had a sudden vision: the two of them were at the competition’s hall; they were both in the auditorium, and he was placing flower arrangements, while Jin was tuning the grand piano in the center of the stage, eyes closed, listening intently and making minute adjustments to each note’s pitch.
“Mr. Dogashi, what are you thinking about?”
Jin’s question disrupted his daydream. “Oh, nothing, Jin. You’re gifted at this, you know?”
“What do you think about normally, then?” Jin seemed not to hear the compliment. “Do you think about what the final product would look like? You cut so fast, I can’t help but imagine you are just sculpting the arrangement according to some grand design.”
His speed was something oft commented on; Dogashi thought about how to best answer his question.
“I have an idea, but it’s a little less planned, maybe a little improvised, like a speech that isn’t scripted,” he said. “Also, speed helps reduce trauma for the flowers; the less they’re touched, the better.”
It was his standard answer, but something about Jin’s gaze—piercing, unwavering, but not interrogative—that made him want to say more.
“I do have the atmosphere that I want to convey in mind, that’s for sure. That atmosphere—and the scene that might best evoke it—is very difficult to capture. So if I do manage to imagine a scene that evokes it well, I work as quickly as possible. Because there have been plenty of times when I forget that perfect scene that I imagined, and then I have to almost fake the atmosphere. People can tell, you know? They can’t describe why one arrangement looks better or worse than another, but people somehow know when I finish an arrangement while the scene is still in my head versus when I finish it after losing that scene in my head partway through. If that makes sense.”
“Wow,” Jin murmured. “Speed. Yeah, I imagine it’d be bad to lose the scene.”
His eyes glazed over again.
“Floral arrangements are like music, in that way,” Jin said suddenly. “It’s impossible to recreate a concert performance, even with the best equipment. It’s like something about it resists being captured. It’s just the instant, and then it disappears. Your flowers, they’ll begin to die the moment you cut them. Every second, they’re wilting, dying, evaporating. And you’re building up the arrangement, trying to sculpt even as it’s fading away. There’s never a single moment in which it’s complete, because every moment, it’s changing. Just in the same way a piece of music is never perfect, because it’s impossible to hear all of it, beginning to end, in a single instant.”
The boy sighed. “I don’t think that made any sense, but I think I just like floral arrangements, Mr. Dogashi.”
Dogashi nodded and smiled. He liked the boy.
“The flowers seem as though they don’t even know they’ve been slaughtered,” Jin said suddenly, flatly.
Dogashi felt his stomach turn at the word “slaughter;” he watched the boy stare at the floral arrangement, half complete—dying by the second.
“Just an instant …”
Jin murmured. Dogashi didn’t know what to think.