7: <Battles Without Honor and Humanity> Theme Song
It was light. The air was light.
Masami, stepping out into the lobby with the other audience members, felt a sigh of relief come out from her.
Even her camera felt lighter.
The audience’s receding backs looked carefree. Everyone, with lightened loads, freed of gravity itself, was ready to enjoy the evening ahead.
People’s expressions were of relief as well.
Emptiness, spent-ness.
The long, long recitals were over.
Everyone’s sense of finality seemed to infuse the air like some fragrant oil.
What a taxing time it had been for everyone.
The feeling of waking up from a dream. From a hundred contestants down to six, the journey has been riotous and stressful; just one more day, and then six to one.
This is the climax of the competition.
Masami realized something: her body was sick of it. It didn’t want to hear another piano again for a long, long time. But in her heart, she wanted to keep listening, to bite her nails as she waited for the results, and to cheer and console the contestants.
Masami saw a familiar face in the crowd.
“Akashi!”
Akashi Dakashima spun around with surprise and saw her after a beat.
“Ah.”
His expression, too, was of emptiness.
“Masami, amazing work.”
“You’re the one who’s done amazing work.”
“I just played for sixty minutes.”
They chuckled quietly. There was a camaraderie even here.
“And my work is just beginning. Editing, post-production, gosh.”
“And you have to film the Final Round, I guess.”
“The most exciting day, in a certain way.”
They strolled through the lobby.
“People seem to be going home,” Masami commented.
“They’ve had a long day. I think I heard people saying they’d come back around the time the results are to come out.”
“Are you going to?”
“Of course. My run might be over, but I’m still curious about how the competition I participated in finishes.”
“Are you going to listen to the Final Round?”
“That’s the plan.”
“My ears are stuffed, if you know what I mean. I couldn’t listen to another second.” Masami stretched. “By the way. They were all fantastic, but the last performer was ... ”
“It was otherworldly. I was listening, and then suddenly I could see my teenage years, or my parents’ faces as they looked when I was a kid. Like I was in some sort of visual time machine.”
It was indeed an experience almost mystical. Listening to Aya Eiden’s performance had been literally transportive.
The succession of memories had been so intense that he had wanted to break down and cry.
“I was just crying for no good reason at all,” Masami said, almost to herself. She looked over at Akashi, and blinked: his eyes and nose were bright read, his mouth slightly parted. He seemed on the verge of a breakdown.
“Uh, are you alright? Was it something I said?”
“No,” he smiled, shaking his head. “Not at all.”
But she was sure of it: he was about to cry.
“Come on, what is it? Did something happen?”
“I swear, it’s nothing.” He tightened his face, about to laugh or to cry, and looked at his shoes as if embarrassed.
What could it be?
Akashi was crying. Why was crying? Because he hadn’t made it to the Third Round? Perhaps his frustration, his disappointment had finally burst from him, now that it was time for the results and there was no chance that his name would be called.
His eyes were wandering nothingness.
Did I say something insensitive? Maybe I shouldn’t have praised the last performance?
Masami had gotten in the habit of watching what she said around contestants while filming and especially before performances, but she had been less concerned after the results were out in the open.
Her caution for the past two weeks was perhaps why she didn’t even consider that his tears were of joy.
He was, in truth, simply happy at what she had said about Aya’s performance. For her, who did not typically go out of her way to listen to classical music (even if she enjoyed it when she did), to have been so touched by Aya’s performance—as he had been—made him so much happier than his enjoyment alone.
Music is incredible.
I’m so happy I did the competition. I’m so happy I persisted for the last year.
All that came to the fore at once, and his tears flowed and flowed.
Masami had watched him for another moment with concern, but then drifted off to see another contestant she knew. He felt relieved; he stole away to a quiet corner of the hall and brushed at his eyes.
No one saw me, right?
Nearing thirty, hiding and wiping away tears—he felt it both silly and somehow lovely.
And then he saw Aya Eiden.
Jeans and a sweater. Not a touch of makeup, as far as he could tell: simple. Relaxed, light—hard to believe that she held such immense music within her.
He didn’t know where the courage came from, but when he came to, he was standing right in front of her.
“Thank you.”
Aya looked, taken aback, at the man who had almost sprinted up to her.
Was she always so small.
The woman—the girl—was barely a child. Shockingly large, abyssal eyes. Light glinted off them.
“Thank you, Miss Eiden,” Akashi repeated.
Aya still seemed taken aback.
“Thank you for your wonderful performance. Thank you for returning. Thank you,” he said sincerely.
Aya seemed stunned. He saw an emotion come alive in her eyes. As if she had thought of something, realized something.
Suddenly, tears welled in those soulful eyes. Akashi felt his eyes tearing up again as well.
He didn’t know what was happening. Akashi and Aya both, they knew they were sharing in something bigger than the two of them.
“Ah!” Aya’s face was crumpled with emotion.
She suddenly fell into his arms and began to sob.
Ah! Keening pain that felt wrung from his heart. Akashi felt his ribs protest at her surprisingly strong grip. He too was crying with her.
What a perverse situation, he thought, and still he held her, and she held him, and they cried and cried. But they were good tears—cathartic tears.
People had begun to stare, they knew, but still they cried.
“Ajang, what’s happening?”
A shocked voice could be heard from afar. It was Masaru Carlos. He walked over with a long-haired girl toward Aya.
“Ah, uhh ...”
“So, you see ...”
Akashi and Aya both, with moist eyes and sniffling noses, tried and failed to explain themselves.
Masaru looked at these two people, faces contorted, crying uninhibitedly. It didn’t seem as though Akashi had made Aya cry, or that there was any sort of problem; the two really were just crying like children, and now looking at him and each other, a little lost.
They too realized how odd of a situation they had created. They burst into laughter.
“Gosh, I’m so sorry.”
“No, my apologies, I just.”
They both spoke and both fell silent; this sparked another bout of laughter. They doubled over, now laughing to tears.
Finally, they both calmed down. Akashi said, “Please pardon me—I, um, was also in the competition, and have been a fan of yours for a long time.”
Aya smiled and nodded. “You’re Akashi Dakashima, right? I liked your playing a lot.”
Her eyes glowed.
“Huh? You know me?”
“Of course I do. I want to hear you when you play next.”
It didn’t seem like a hollow sentiment.
Aya Eiden. Wants to hear me play. Me.
A chill ran over his skin.
“Well. I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“Please do. Now, if you’ll excuse me ...”
She smiled at him and walked away. He watched Masaru lean over—what was that, Ajang? Do you know him?—and found that he couldn’t move.
This is just the beginning.
A hotness ran throughout his body.
This competition was just the beginning. I am only now, just barely, beginning my life as a musician.
This wasn’t a prediction—it was a certainty.
The thought echoed throughout his mind.
A musician.
* * *
“Hmph.”
Masaru, stepping into the glass-enclosed lobby, let out a disappointed grunt.
Aya, Kanadae, and he had just returned to the competition venue for the results after a simple dinner. Clusters of people milled about, tense; the air was thick.
“What’s wrong?” Aya asked.
“I’m so tired,” Kanadae moaned, sitting down at the nearest bench. Keeping up with Masaru was an athletic endeavor.
“The results haven’t come out yet, I think.”
“Huh?”
Kanadae and Aya looked at their watches. 8:42 P.M.; the results were supposed to have been announced a tad after 8:30.
The Yoshigaë Competition was not one known for its tardiness or its reticence; results or delays thereof were typically communicated promptly and transparently.
They had been drinking tea at a café nearby waiting for the results; a lively debate about the relative merits of Mozart and Haydn had made them lose track of time and caused them to run over to the venue.
They looked about; almost everyone looked familiar now. Everyone, from their fellow contestants to the staff to the locals, seemed stressed and nervous.
In plain clothes now, they also seemed more human—more childish. Most were teenagers or just older than, of course.
An uneasy air. The reporters whispering among themselves; the contestants tap-tapping. The judges—nowhere to be seen.
“Talk about weird.”
“Christ knows what’s going on.”
People’s nerves seemed to be fraying; the volume of chatter in the hall grew louder.
A minute; another minute.
“Do you think they’re fighting?”
“What about?”
Rumors began to circulate.
And then, from the staircase the judges had descended for the First and Second Round results, a harried-looking staffer entered the lobby and whispered to the other staff preparing the lectern. Looks of shock passed between them.
Presently the staffer went back up the stairs; the remaining staff seemed markedly paler.
“What do you think that was?” Aya asked Masaru, who only shrugged.
Whispers began propagating from the audience members closest to the lectern outward. A hesitant, disbelieving whisper.
“... Disqualified.”
“There was a disqualification.”
“Someone was disqualified.”
“What?”
“That’s what’s taking them so long.”
“Why?”
The nervous energy intensified; it became oppressive, tactile.
“A disqualification?”
Masaru and Aya and Kanadae looked at each other. Only one word distilled itself out of their collective consciousness: Jin.
The only one who would have been disqualified, as far as they could tell, was him.
Not following his program, replaying and truncating the Satie. Three times.
It had been so moving when heard live. Would he really be disqualified for it?
“No way,” Aya said, shaken.
Masaru didn’t speak, but his eyes didn’t betray agreement or disagreement with the hypothesis.
Aya couldn’t even speak his name. She felt that saying it out loud would will the catastrophe into existence.
A disqualification? No way. I can’t believe it. I refuse it. How could there be?
Kanadae seemed irritated. “Where even is he?”
She, too, didn’t say his name. She looked around; he was nowhere to be seen. Where was he? Did he know he was the prime suspect of the competition’s greatest upheaval so far?
Aya’s heart pounded against her sternum.
No. No. No. He brought me back to the stage. No.
She felt the ground give. Masaru saw her pale face and cold sweat and put an arm around her. “It’ll be OK, it’ll be OK.
”We don’t know anything for certain. We don’t know whether it was Jin who was disqualified. It could be anyone.“
”But what else could anyone have been disqualified for?“ Aya asked heatedly. ”Everyone else kept to the time limit, and no one’s performance was stopped. Can you think of a single reason anyone would be disqualified?“
Masaru fell silent. No one spoke.
Only Jin came to their minds.
Disqualification.
It sunk in, sitting heavily in their chests.
The time they had spent with him. Their conversations. Their memories.
His playful smile hovered at the edge of Aya’s vision.
How.
She fell into a panic the likes of which she’d never felt before. She imagined she’d be less at a loss if it’d happened to her.
It wasn’t just Aya and company who thought Jin was the prime suspect: his name whisper-echoed throughout the lobby.
”Jin Kazama was disqualified.“
”What? The honeybee prince?“
”Must be.“
”They say his performance broke the rules.“
Groupthink.
Rumor had gained the credibility of fact; it was a certainty.
Disqualification. Jin Kazama has been disqualified.
Newcomers were treated with the news as well. The lobby grew loud—and the judges remained unseen.
Journalists prowled, accosting unsuspecting staffers and sticking microphones and cameras in their faces. The staffers, however, seemed just as oblivious as anyone.
It was now past 9 P.M.
Whatever the true reason, something was very, very deeply off.
Restless clumps here and there in the lobby. Fatigue and nerves taking their toll.
”So what if someone was disqualified? What’s taking so long?“
”I would guess the majority that voted to disqualify is trying to persuade the rest. Even if they have the numbers to force their will, they want to respect the other opinions. Otherwise you get a repeat of Argerich in 1990,[1] and that’s no good.“
In that moment, a shadow flitted into the lobby.
A face with none of the heaviness of the hall.
”Look!“
Aya, in her surprise, yelped and grabbed Masaru and Kanadae.
”It’s Jin.“
Others heard; presently all were looking at him. Jin, as if noticing the eyes trained upon him, stopped in his tracks and look around, bewildered.
Aya recalled his first stage appearance—how he had halted as soon as he had stepped out onstage because of the applause and bowed right then and there.
But he could tell: something was wrong.
”What?“
So obviously was something off—and everyone seemed to be looking at him.
Aya sympathized. She had been the subject of such gazes before. She waved.
”Jin, over here.“
He walked over hesitantly, still looking around. He walked hunched over, as if trying to shield himself from others’ gazes.
”What’s happening? Was I eliminated?“ he asked cautiously. Aya shook her head.
”We don’t know the results yet.“
”But it’s so late.“
Jin checked his watch and the hall’s. They were both correct.
”Where have you been?“ Kanadae asked.
Jin looked a tad frightened. ”I was watching my mentor work.“
”Mentor? You have a piano mentor?“
”No, the mentor I’m doing my homestay with, who runs the flowershop.“
”The flowershop owner is your mentor?“ Kanadae seemed dismissive.
”Yep,“ he nodded. ”Today, he was doing a big installation, so I went to watch. It was kind of far from the town center, so it took me a while. I really thought they’d have results out by now.“
Aya and Kanadae looked at each other. Jin looked between them.
”So what’s happening? Why is everyone looking at me?“
No one was looking at him now, but the air remained tense.
”There’s some sort of problem,“ Kanadae said casually.
”Problem?“
”People are saying someone’s been disqualified.“ Kanadae glanced at Masaru; he looked stricken.
”Disqualified? What do you mean?“ Jin looked at Masaru beseechingly; he cleared his throat and began speaking quickly.
”Well, like. This one time, you know? I was, um, disqualified, yeah, because I played an encore when I wasn’t supposed to. So, like, your performance goes over the time limit or something like that—you might get disqualified.“
”Uh huh.“ Jin seemed to process this. He looked at Aya—can you tell me what’s really happening?
Aya avoided his gaze for a moment and cleared her throat.
And then Jin stepped back as if shocked; he seemed in pain.
”No.“
His face, contorted with worry—it was a first. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water.
”Me?“
He was flush with fear. He looked among the three of them, his eyes begging for an answer.
”Am I disqualified? Is that why everyone’s looking at me?“
”We don’t know,“ Aya and Masaru said at once. Masaru ran his hand through his hair. ”There is a rumor—a rumor—that someone was disqualified. That’s all.“
”But everyone’s looking at me. Do they think it’s me?“
The boy stared into Aya’s face. She felt herself about to cry.
”We really don’t know. Nobody’s said anything.“
”I’m disqualified?“ Jin seemed to have given up. His eyes saw naught. ”Oh, I’m never getting a piano.“
”What?“ Aya asked; she wasn’t sure whether she had heard right.
What did he say? A piano?
And then the noise in the lobby burst open like a ruptured dam.
”They’re here, they’re here.“
The whole lobby turned toward the staircase on which the judges were descending. Lights came on; the temperature seemed to jump ten degrees.
They seemed tired, but calm. Thirteen of them arrived onstage.
Kanadae searched their expressions, but, looking at them, one would think nothing was amiss.
Nothing seemed particularly serious. No one appeared angry. Not pleased, necessarily, but.
If Jin had been eliminated, most of the delay would have been attributable to that. Given the delay, could there really have been a solution that everyone could be this calm about? Was there a disqualification, even?
She felt her heart beat.
A staffer passed Olga Sluchkaya a microphone.
”Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience.“
She began as if nothing were the matter. There wasn’t an iota of fatigue in her confident manner.
”We will present the results of the Third Round.“
She went on with some platitudes—a consistently high caliber of performance made these decisions among the toughest they’d made; an elimination here shouldn’t be taken as a rejection of musicality or personality; on and on. Reporters, contestants, and fans alike were barely listening.
The reason for the delay, and the results.
That was all they cared for.
Olga seemed to register this; still, she spoke serenely, almost gently.
And then she paused. A clear of the throat.
”Now, if we may share the reason for the delay.“
Another pause.
”In truth, one contestant was disqualified due to unexpected circumstances.“
Murmurs rippled through the audience.
It was real, it was real.
Aya felt Jin grow rigid. She placed a hand on his shoulder; he gave her a weak smile. Aya smiled encouragingly and nodded: don’t pay anyone any mind.
”Confirming the veracity of these circumstances, consulting with the board of the competition, and re-assessing the contestants moving onto the Final Round caused the delay. We sincerely apologize, and will offer further details presently.“
She inhaled. ”But, for now. The following contestants will proceed onto the Final Round. I shall read the names in the order of performance.“
The lobby was silent.
”Number nineteen, Sujong Kim.“
”Yes!“ A great cheer; flashing cameras. A young man was pumping both fists in the air.
”Number thirty, Masaru Carlos Levi Anatol.“
A louder cheer. People crowded him, but his expression was knotted, a half-smile. Aya knew he was thinking of Jin.
”Number forty-one, Frederic Dmiy.“
And in an instant, half of the names had been called.
Aya stuck close to Jin. He leaned against her as well.
”Number forty-seven, Han-sun Cho.“
Screams and screams
She felt him tense.
There were five contestants in the Third Round between Han-sun Cho and her, number eighty-eight. Two slots.
She had never felt so stressed.
She feared the next name.
”Number eighty-one, Jin Kazama.“
Deafening shrieks. The audio system whined; multiple people groaned and plugged their ears.
Not only was Jin moving on, but—
”And number eighty-eight, Aya Eiden. That is all.“
—but so was she.
Aya felt the people nearest her embracing her. Kanadae screaming and jumping; Masaru holding them both.
And Jin.
He was radiant. Smiling ear to ear. He was silent and still, but it was the happiest she had ever seen him.
”We made it! All three of us made it!“ Masaru shouted. His voice cracked; they all laughed, and he blushed.
The microphone’s tap-tap echoed. The hall fell silent.
Congrats, Jin. You made it.
Olga cleared her throat.
”If I may give one more announcement about the circumstances from earlier.“
The foursome looked at Olga. What, indeed, could it have been?
”The circumstances were that two contestants had precisely equal scores for the Third Round, and that they would have been sixth and seventh Final Round contestants had their scores differed by even one point. Moreover, their scores for both the First and Second Rounds were also precisely equal.
“This occurrence is highly irregular; in consulting with our colleagues in peer competitions, we learned it has never happened before in any competition. Per protocol, we would have considered these contestants’ resumes, but we felt that qualification for the Final Round ought not hinge on that factor.
”The majority of debate was in devising a methodology that would both be fair and break the tie. We are pleased with our results.
“We are not at liberty to share the names of those two contestants, or what the new methodology lays out. If you are among those contestants who did not move onto the Final Round, you may be feeling hurt, or short-changed. But we ask for your faith that our methodology produces fair, if not always desirable, results.
”Amidst unprecedented circumstances, one must make those decisions which are fairest and most meritocratic. We believe we have done so, and ask for your trust in the same.“
More murmurs. It was a rare admission of unpreparedness from a competition’s administration, and a startling insight into the judging system.
”Now, I would like to offer my sincerest congratulations to those contestants who will play in the Final Round. You have remarkable musicality and superlative technique. We judges are very pleased with the sixth Yoshigaë Competition thus far. We look forward to your concerto performances.“
The judges receded in a line. The lobby was casually chatting; here and there, interviews were taking place.
”Oh, gosh.“ Aya and company all stretched as one. Masaru laughed and rubbed his chest.
”How crazy was that.“
”Right?“
”We all made it!“
Kanadae suddenly hugged Aya. ”I’m proud of you.“
”Thanks, friend.“
Kanadae let go, and then looked at Masaru and Jin. ”And you boys too, of course.“
Masaru smiled. ”Thanks.“
Jin’s face seemed to glow. He couldn’t seem to find his words.
At that moment, Masaru’s phone rang. ”Yes?“ he answered. Masaru mouthed ”rehearsals“ to the group.
Momentarily, both Jin and Aya received calls as well.
The Final Round.
We made it.
Only when Aya hung up did it hit her.
Who would have thought we’d make it this far.
She felt a totally different person from two weeks ago. She thanked some unknown being silently.
* * *
The photos of the contestants are still up on the lobby’s wall. Staffers added a third flower to six portraits.
Akashi walked by them, feeling the hum of energy.
The Final Round was coming up.
He gravitated toward his own photo. There was one flower, but that was fine by him.
Now that Jin’s made it to the Final Round, can’t we just agree—he is just as brilliant as Masaru, just as perfect as Aya?
Akashi sighed.
What a competition.
It had been for closure, to show that he’d tried. Almost commemorative. A way to tidy up his childhood.
But instead, it had inspired him. He had met so many contestants, and stood onstage, and heard hours and hours of music.
He felt he could carry this forward for the rest of his life, that it would nourish his soul and inspire his music.
I’m ready. I’m more ready than I’ve ever been.
He thought, and smiled. And then turned around.
A phone rang.
Hm?
It was his. The number was the competition’s offices. A number he had called to apply for the competition. A number he would have deleted in the next few days.
He answered.
”Hello?“
To his skeptical salutation, a woman asked, ”Would this be Mr. Akashi Dakashima?“
”This is he.“
”Good evening. I’m calling on behalf of the Yoshigaë Competition. Where might you be?“
What an odd question.
”Right now I’m in Yoshigaë. I was about to return to Tokyo.“
”I see. And would you be able to come to Yoshigaë on Sunday the twenty-fourth, the last day of the competition?“
A businesslike tone.
”The last day?“ He thought. He had been planning to hear the Final Round, so. ”Yes, I was hoping to watch the Final Round.“
”I see. I’m very pleased to hear that. Would you be able to come to the award ceremony afterward? It is scheduled to conclude two hours after the end of the Final Round.“
Award ceremony.
Hm.
Her tone remained neutral.
”Why do you ask, if I may?“
”The judges, after making decisions for the contestants for the Final Round, also made their decisions for the other awards offered by the competition. I’m pleased to inform you that you’ve won an honorable mention award and the Hishinuma award.“
”What?“
He felt his legs give. He sat down.
”What? Honorable mention?“
”And the Hishinuma award, Mr. Dakashima, yes.“
”Honorable mention, and, um. The Hishinuma award. That would be, um.“
”Yes. The honorable mention award goes to a contestant eliminated before the Final Round for whom the judges feel particularly warmly and whose future they eagerly anticipate. The Hishinuma award is decided solely, and awarded personally, by Maestro Hishinuma. It is an award for the contestant whose performance of ‘Spring and Havoc’ most impressed the Maestro.“
”Me?“ he screamed.
”Yes. Congratulations.“ He heard a small laugh on the other end.
”Thank you! Thank you!“ He bowed at nothingness. He smiled and pulled at his shirt; his heart yelped and leapt.
I, I, I won the Hishinuma award. Over Jin Kazama, and Aya Eiden. I won.
And honorable mention. My future. Eagerly anticipate.
Maybe Aya Eiden will hear me one day after all.
I can’t believe it.
He wanted to explode into a million particles of joy.
The voice on the other end was giving him some logistical information, but none of it was registering to him.
* * *
”So, Jin Kazama?“ Miëko asked Masaru. He just shrugged.
”He heard the results, and then went back to his homestay. To help his mentor.“
”Mentor? Is he being taught by someone?“ Miëko looked ready to take someone’s head off if it would mean getting the answer. Nathaniel, standing beside her, twitched, Masaru noticed.
”No, not piano,“ Masaru said. He paused.
”Then what? Composition? Ear training?“ Nathaniel shouted.
Maestro, do you think he needs ear training? Masaru asked silently, bitterly.
Aya laughed. ”Um. Flower arrangement.“
”Flow—“ Miëko stuttered. She took a deep breath.
”Yes, Maestro. A friend of his father’s, he says. He runs a flowershop, and he’s working on a large installation. He’s learning flower arrangement at the moment—I believe he started while here.“
”Christ,“ Miëko sighed. Nathaniel rubbed his face.
The judges and contestants were milling about together. The atmosphere was not unlike the gala before the first day of the competition.
Yoshigaë had always had a certain convivial atmosphere between the judges and contestants—a fact that always raised eyebrows but hadn’t resulted in any problems, at least so far.
The contestants sought advice on how to live as a musician; how to sustain and develop their musicality; how to report or not report income made teaching and freelancing. For this competition was but one hoop on the way to stardom, or just the rest of their lives.
”We’ll never know what’s next for him,“ Nathaniel muttered, shaking his head.
”We want to speak with him too, you know?“ Miëko said, almost defensively.
”Really?“ Masaru parried. ”We thought you’d disqualified him for sure.“
”Not at all. Not one judge, not even the conservative ones, voiced anything about disqualifying him. He was amazing. You know, I totally rejected him when I heard him in Paris, but I’ve come to admire him, and really like him.“
”I’m glad,“ Masaru said.
”You’re glad your rival is still in the running?“ Nathaniel glared.
”It wouldn’t mean nearly as much if I had won without going against him until the end, Maestro.“
”You say that, but if you lose ...“
”Leave him alone,“ Miëko said, slapping lightly at Nathaniel’s arm.
”I’m really, really glad he made it,“ Aya said quietly.
Hm? Miëko wondered.
Aya’s face had totally changed since the start of the competition. None of the confusion, the aimlessness from the start. Now, a calm and peace so intense it resembled aloofness.
You’re back, Miëko thought.
A readiness for the stage, and for life: nothing pleased a judge more.
”You kids are only getting better as the rounds go by. It’s anyone’s competition, not just you two and Jin.“
Miëko said this sternly, but Masaru and Aya just looked at one another; a joke seemed to pass between them.
Their smiles were full of fun, lightness, joy. They just wanted to play; not an iota of competitiveness could be found.
Six contestants into the Final Round.
Final Rounds, despite their dramatic name, tend to be seen just as a way to sort the however many remaining contestants into some order; the shock of playing with an orchestra, however, could jolt and has jolted extant impressions of contestants. However excellent the solo performances, a poor concerto showing could erase it all.
”I’m excited,“ Miëko said, a glint in her eye. She looked at Nathaniel; he had the same glint.
Do you think your torchbearer can win?
He raised his eyebrow ever so slightly.
”I’m excited too,“ he said.
They both smiled, but they also both knew neither was truly smiling.
The competition would pause for two days while orchestral rehearsals took place. The Final Round, in three days. And then the end.
Anything could happen.
1. At the 1990 Chopin Competition, a quintennial piano competition devoted exclusively to the works of Frédéric Chopin, Martha Argerich—after learning that Ivo Pogorelich, a contestant that year, had been eliminated after the Third Round—quit the jury in protest, saying that he was a “genius.”