3: Auld Lang Syne
“… So what do you think Maestro’s goal was?” Nathaniel asked out of nowhere.
“I have no idea,” Miëko shrugged.
“What does it matter now.”
“The hell it doesn’t,” Miëko glared accusingly. “Isn’t it good to know that he was a gift, not a calamity?”
“You think he was a gift?” Nathaniel looked ambushed.
“I thought so. In the end, anyway. Especially to your kid.”
Nathaniel thought. “Hm. Maybe. Yeah, definitely.”
“Right? How much more fun was this year thanks to him. Wasn’t his unorthodox music what made Masaru’s classicism stand out even more?”
“It’s possible,” he conceded.
“And he seemed to have made a big impression on a lot of other contestants. Not least the girl.”
“Aya?”
“Yeah.”
“She really was amazing,” Nathaniel said pensively.
“Especially her Prokofiev’s Second. It would not have surprised me if she had won.”
“Yeah. I never thought I’d be tearing up at Prok Two,” Miëko chuckled. “I’m personally happy for her return, honestly.”
“You think she’ll be a proper concert pianist now?”
“She said she would if she were invited. I’m sure she will be.” Miëko recalled her exhilarated face at the end of her performance.
“How funny is it that she was playmates with Masaru.”
“Masaru’s completely fallen for her, don’t you think? You should tell him, as his teacher. Pianists shouldn’t date, look at me, et cetera.”
Nathaniel suppressed a laugh. “Didn’t know you were so invested in my student.” He seemed happy even as he sighed.
The two were at the hotel bar; last call was imminent, and the room was nearly empty.
The award ceremony had concluded, and their responsibilities were over. Everyone would be getting a good night’s sleep that night.
But there was a latent tension between these two old friends and ex-spouses.
Miëko stretched lightly. “I’m always miserable and tired all competition, and then I just want to go again as soon as I’m done.”
“It helps when the contestants are good.” Nathaniel sipped his whiskey.
“Yeah. And there are more sprouting every day. We just have to be ready for them.”
“You sound like Maestro.”
A gift.
I present to you all Jin Kazama.
Miëko smiled. We got him, Maestro.
She raised her glass.
“What are you doing?” Nathaniel asked.
“Raising a glass.”
“To who?”
“Maestro Hoffman.”
“Ah. Can’t let you do that alone.” He raised his.
“What are you going to do with Masaru?” Miëko asked after a silence. “Are you going to send him to more competitions?”
“I don’t know. Before I could even say congratulations, he was telling me about all the classes he wanted to take. Especially composition.”
“Composition?”
“Yeah. It’s not the first time, but. He said he wanted to create a new classic, or something like that.”
“Such desire.”
“He wants to be a composer-pianist.”
“That should be fun.”
“I’m happy for him, as his teacher. Jin Kazama would probably do the same someday. His Africa was amazing, after all.”
“It was. Jin Kazama at his best.”
Nathaniel looked down at his hands. “I’m itching to play all of a sudden.”
Miëko looked down as well. “Me too. I want to play today, I want to play now. I want to play Jin Kazama’s Africa.”
“I’ve spent too much time conducting.”
“No kidding. Get back to your roots.”
“I should.”
“You really couldn’t predict that kid. Who knows where he’ll be in two years.”
“Who knows who’s going to teach him.”
“Hoffman apparently planted some seeds in Paris.”
“No one wouldn’t take him now. Especially clutching that silver.” Nathaniel laughed bitterly. “He’s not normal.”
“Who said he was? He was like that all the way back at auditions.”
“He’s yours now, you know? You found him.”
“You don’t need to tell me, ha. I would be happy to retire from judging now.” Miëko laughed, as though she had totally forgotten her initial fury.
“You boasting—it doesn’t suit you.”
“Bite me.”
The bartender brought over the check. Nathaniel withdrew a card from his wallet and signed. “So have you thought about it?”
“What?”
“You know.” He looked up at her. “What I asked about. Before the competition.”
Trying again. Miëko was at a loss.
“I can’t believe you’re still thinking about that. You were serious?”
“Ouch.” Nathaniel smiled, but she saw a yearning in his eyes.
“Gosh.” She frowned slightly. They began to walk. “I have someone right now, you know.”
“I do. But you’re not married.”
“That’s true.”
She felt herself waver. She knew that when she liked him, she loved him—that they were fundamentally two strings on the same frequency.
“Tell you what. Finish your divorce and then we can talk.”
“Not a no.”
She smiled bitterly at his sophomoric happiness. “See you when I see you.”
“I have a concert in Paris next month, so.”
This man. She tutted silently. He’ll do whatever he damn well pleases.
I miss him.
She shivered violently, but he, a step ahead of her, didn’t see it.
“Call me.”
“I’ll save you a seat.” Nathaniel winked.
The elevator arrived; they rode silently.
Back to our lives, Miëko thought. Back to our music.