Epilogue: A lá Schoenberg

Right! So! Here we are, here's the College, yeah, okay, ooookay...Take a deep breath, Usa, calm yourself down. Heeeep...hoooo...

Okay! Yes! I got in, that makes me very happy, but then again...maybe it's a fluke...maybe I'm not really supposed to be here...after all, I have so much more to learn and...

Wah! Of course I'm not supposed to be here! There's no way I'd get accepted into the Royal College, I'm a really bad musician who doesn't know anything, and I've never had a real teacher before and...

That does it! I'm going back to Japan, definitely! I'll just pack up quickly and take the next plane out, I knew it from the beginning, I'm not good enough, so I'll just go back and become a waitress or something else, because I'm not smart enough to get a job anywhere else, and...

"Excuse me, are you looking for the College? Are you a student?" A voice with a slight French accent comes from above where I am staring moodily at the ground, and I drag out the English that I've spent the last three months stuffing down my throat.

"Yes." Sniff. When the hell did you start crying, Usa? Good-for-nothing...

"Are you okay?"

"Yes." Liar!

"Well, the entrance is right over here."

"Yeah, I know, I'm not stupid."

I look up finally. Oh, shit. He's male, attractive, and is now forever convinced that he's met the rudest person ever to walk the face of the earth. Which I am.

"What instrument do you play?" Trying to be nice, of course. More likely he's looking for my weaknesses.

"Piano."

"Really? That's awesome! I'm a drum major. You must be incredible, though, to get into the piano program here at the Conservatoire. Isn't it like, crazy competitive?"

"Yes." Pride is starting to swell up. "As a matter of fact, the judges said I was one of the best they'd heard all day. I played Chopin's 'Ballade number 3' and Rachmaninoff's 'Etude in E flat minor' and..."

A foggy look is starting to creep over his face. "Ah, sorry," he says awkwardly, "I'm not familiar with those pieces..."

Well, I am extremely intelligent, after all. I wonder if they always allow in these musicians who aren't familiar with the basic repetoire, drum major or not. Probably even some of the piano majors don't, either.

Of course, I've worked so very hard to get in, hours and hours of practice, even more than most piano students. I'm very proud of myself, if I may say so myself.

Oh shit. You're doing it again, Usa. Get yourself together. You can't just swing back and forth between super high and super low. You know that. Get it under control.

"What's your name?" he asks curiously. I notice suddenly, that he is rather well dressed. Very well dressed, I might add. I feel a little uncomfortable next to him, in my grungy jeans and spandex tight black top. Next to his leather-soled shoes and white-and-pink striped linen button-down shirt, I feel like something off the streets of Uganda.

"Usa," I answer. "I'm from Japan," I add, hoping to convince him that "Usa" is a respectable name there.

"Ah. I'm Jacques. I'm from Paris," he says.

And you're gay. Clearly. I feel a little more comfortable as I watch him slyly appraise another tall, dark and handsome guy across the campus.

I can handle gay. At least I won't have friends accusing me of liking him. "Nice to meet you, Jacques."

"You too, Uso."

"Usa."

"Usa. See you round, Usa."

.

Climbing the million flights of stairs up to the practice rooms, I shivered under my thin clothing. It wasn't the fault of the early February wind, creeping through the high Romanesque-arched windows where it couldn't get through the red brick walls.

Another piano student stalked by in her performance-ready red blouse and long black skirt, and I felt the same chill intensify.

I felt her eyes squint at me hostilly, her posture and expression clearly indicating, "This is a Rival. I must dismount her from her high horse."

My lance is not as long as hers, and I know it. A Prokofiev piano sonata, coming in clearly though a practice room door, told me what I already knew. Each of its perfectly timed notes, crystal clear, elegant phrasing, sensitive touch, pounded the message into my brain.

I am no longer the best.

I stand at the bottom of the ladder, looking up at those climbing higher than me, casting unimpressed looks down at me from above.

I sighed as I turned the key in the lock and entered the room, the Yamaha grand shining in the corner, daring and forbidding. I set down my bag, pulled out my music, arranged it carefully on the music stand, and sat down.

What first?

I stretched my fingers, slightly stiff from the cold outside, feeling my inflexible minor-tenth range between first and fifth fingers, wishing my hands were bigger, stronger. The white plastic keys suddenly felt very slick to me.

I hesitated, and then began playing Brahms' Intermezzo in C, op. 119 no.3. It was a light, cheerful tune, one than reminded me of Kahoko, whimsical, changing rhythms and playful melody interlacing the repetitious upper chords and arpessiated lower notes. Ahh...Brahms, you were a genius indeed.

Did I just leave a note out?

I frowned as I backtracked, noting the low A my left hand had slyly glazed over. From the top, then.

Ah, I've got the hang of it now. But...how choppy my phrases feel now? Is my melody really coming out well enough? Should this phrase be softer?

I stopped, sighed again. Maybe it's not a good day for this piece. I'll try something else, then, something slower.

Enter the world of heavy double trills, contrast between slurs and stacattos, steadily building the tension of a hopeless heart. Schubert's Piano Sonata in A minor.

My trills aren't even enough, though. Have I always played this carelessly?

I stopped again, aware that a couple of students were peering in to see "the new one", to compare my skills against theirs. Apparently they were satisfied that I was not a huge threat, because they giggled when I looked up and stole away.

Nothing I play sounds right anymore.

.

It's been a week, and I feel like I haven't made any progress, despite eight hours a day, despite listening to music at every free hour, despite the constant study in the library in the basement.

Oh, I know I'm making progress. I can feel it. The phrases are getting smoother, my attention span is increasing, bit by bit, but it's so slow...And I'm already so far behind.

A tap on the glass. It's a girl I know vaguely, and I realized suddenly that I was probably over my time.

I gathered my sheet music and opened the door, pausing to let her come in.

"How long have you been practicing?" she asked politely.

"Long enough for my tea to get stone cold," I replied gloomily, discovering that my forgotten mug was still sitting squatly on top of the piano cover.

"You should drink it first, then."

"But I don't have anything to do while I'm waiting for it to cool down."

"So practice for a couple of minutes and then drink it."

"But by then I've forgotten it's there," I sighed. She smiled ever so slightly and patted me on the shoulder patronizingly.

"I know how you feel," she said magnaimously. "Those wonderful moments when you're making such wonderful practice, you get so absorbed in your music, and you don't want to stop..."

It used to be that way. Now I just feel like I'm frantically trying to keep up with everyone else.

"Well, have a good practice session," I said, and she nodded as she marched over to the piano with a confident, determined look on her face.

I used to feel that way. What happened?

.

I can't concentrate anymore today. I'll go back to my room and kill some time online.

Games...computer games...Freecell maybe?

Click, click. Cards shuffle.

I'm bored with this already.

Fine, I'll watch a movie then.

Yawn. This is boring, too.

I'll just listen to some music, then. I'm working on this Beethoven piano sonata right now...let's compare Richter's performance to Barenboim's.

Hm. Barenboim's is more subtle, but Richter's is more sensitive. I'll try both when I get back to the practice rooms and see which I like better.

Wait...wasn't I supposed to be relaxing?

...Apparently I've forgotten how to relax. I've driven the thought into my brain, "Must think about music!"...and it obediently complied.

But I can't practice right now. Can't think, can't focus, I have an itchy little animal scurrying around in my brain right now, and nothing seems satisfying. Ravel had "Scarbo" right on the money, and it's hopping around me now, doodling on my jeans and grinning fiestily.

A little message pops up in the corner of my screen.

hey usa, how's london?

I type back, Fantastic!

If only there was a font for sarcasm.

Kahoko types back,

great! do your best, okay

I sigh. She always says that. Tap tap tap.

I'm trying, but nothing's working.

She says,

well just keep trying, okay? progress won't come all at once. thats what tsuchiura-kun always tells me when i feel down.

True. How's he doing?

good except for his leg. i think hes pining for soccer

I don't think that's the only thing he's pining for. Why don't you just call him by his first name for a change?

...not yet

You can't keep waiting forever.

i know

thanks, usa

No problem.

.

It was my first piano lesson since the year or two of hell I sat through in high school. I'd never noticed how much my innards can resemble Alexander's Gordian knot before.

This was worse than a performance. At least I've figured out how to deal with stage fright. Oh, God, what a mess that was. For years and years I was convinced that if you couldn't peform perfectly on stage naturally, there was something wrong with you. By and by I'd figured out that you have to practice to perform just as much as the notes themselves.

But this was an entirely new sort of beast, roaring up at me with bared fangs. Just beyond that door, the heavy wooden door with the plain brass placcard that baldly stated, "Dr. Jo Baker".

Shiver. "Dr." sounds like I'm going in for a lobotomy. I wonder if they'd find anything in there. Probably just a flimsy substance like pink cotton-candy, the result of devoting my mental faculties to daydreaming of castles in the sky.

I wondered what Dr. Baker is like? Old and scowling, like Kumoyama-sensei? Round, red, puffing middle-aged man? I can't really see the College employing a young man. Actually, that would make me more nervous than anything else.

I lifted my hand to knock. Geez, my hands are so tiny! Aren't pianist's fingers supposed to be long and slender, brittle like dry twigs?

From inside came the sound of elegant, striding footsteps. My stomach added a couple of loops. Then the door opened and...

"Ah, you must be Usa. Come in, dear."

Eh?

Dr. Baker smiled at me from behind her marvellously puffed white hair and white starched buttonup shirt with cashmere pink cardigan, tall and graceful and wearing heels all the same. I felt very small and grubby, suddenly, in my normal jeans and sneakers. I didn't even remember what shirt I'd thrown on that morning.

"Please have a seat," as the Vision gestured toward one of the two pianos with long, fluttering hands, and wafted over to the other.

I sat down awkwardly and stared at the 88 keys as though I'd never seen the colors white and black before.

"You seem nervous, my dear." Oh, no, not in the slightest. "You don't need to feel that way, you know. I'm pretty sure I've had every kind of nerves available to the human psyche. Just relax and take a deep breath. One, two, three...and out...one, two, three..."

I breathed accordingly, feeling inordinately dumb.

"All right, sit up a little straighter...that's right. What would you like to play for me today?"

"Ano..." Crumb. No Japanese here, Usa. "Um...what would you suggest?"

She smiled a little and inclined her head. "Whatever makes you happy."

Happy? A happy song? Or a sad song? Something frivolous? Something deep?

I cast around in my memory, trying to figure out something that fit my mood.

I feel like a child right now.

A little girl, shyly hiding her face behind her hair, peeking out to see if other people are looking, judging. And hoping for a friend, just one, even if it's imaginary would be enough, to go skipping with, picking daisies, jumping from rock to rock in the midst of a stream.

I lifted my hands to the keys and started Debussy's "Golliwog's Cakewalk".

And started skipping!

There are no pictures that come to my brain when I play music. I don't even see colors, brightness or darkness. I rely wholely on where the melodies lead my emotions. Does this phrase feel like its ending on a sad note? Ironic? Whimsical? What's the connection between it and the next phrase? What kind of hidden melody is the harmonic basis of the left hand creating?

I dug in with my fingers where I felt like something inside me was snarling, and let the playful notes go by barely touched, just enough for the hammers to hit the strings.

It's always been instinct with me. Until recently.

It used to be, I'd get lucky somedays, and play something smashing, the notes ringing out just right. All the notes would be there. But often it wasn't like that. Nobody ever taught me the "correct" way to practice. No one ever said to me, "Do such and such to get this effect. You'll get more secure by practicing over and over, even when you've already learned the music."

I think kids have some weird ideas about how learning works. Why did it take me so long to realize that if I couldn't do something perfect already, it was okay, that I could work hard to get better? That the more perfect the notes were, the more beauty of individuality I could put into the music?

I've been doing this on my own too long, and here it ends.

Put pride away. Pack it into a wooden crate with sawdust and nail down the boards on top. You won't need it here. Rather, it will only hinder you here.

Dr. Baker listened patiently, even when I stumbled a bit in the middle. I looked up at last, suddenly realizing how fast my heart was beating, but I felt excited. The song had opened up something playful inside of me.

"Very nice, my dear." Damned with faint praise. Lovely. "How long have you been working on this piece?"

"About a month," I admitted, my face heating up. I'd been working on so many pieces recently, trying to play catch-up, trying to absorb Beethoven's sonatas, Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier, Chopin's Etudes, all at once, that the smaller pieces hadn't had as much time in between.

She must have deduced this, though, and left the mussed-up bit behind. After all, the notes were already gone. I couldn't call them back up and correct them. Just leave them and learn from them. "You have a very unusual touch. Normally students come to me with perfect technique and expect me to inject musicality into them. With you it's the opposite."

"Sorry." I looked away, embarassed, until I felt a very light touch on my shoulder.

"Technique can be acquired with hard work and patience," she said as I met her eyes. "Musicality comes from within. You've studied a lot of theory, haven't you? Composition, perhaps?"

Right again. "Yes."

She smiled a little triumphantly. "Someday, I think, you'll learn to appreciate how much of an advantage this gives you. But for today, let's work on technique. To begin with, your left hand was much too heavy during these sections..."

And she started to demonstrate with those long, delicate hands.

But what do the hands matter? My ears are just as good. I'll make my little hands duplicate that sound.

One thing at a time.

As patient as Kahoko.

.

There's a couple making out, standing in the middle of the subway train, not caring if anyone sees.

I know I shouldn't stare, but I can't help it.

I wonder if there will ever be anyone to like me?

I snorted. Yeah, right. Boddhistvas don't marry. I can't think of anyone else with enough patience for the almighty Me.

Maybe it's better this way.

Because now the stage is clearer, standing there before me. I'm going to have to work harder than before if I want to make it.

Yukuri, yukuri.

Day by day. Night by night. Every day I will improve, slowly, though progress may be slow, though it will take ages to catch up.

I have a secret weapon, you see.

Nobody's forcing me to do this. I have no one's expectations to live up to except my own.

I'm doing it because I love music, and that's all the incentive I need.

The Rachmaninoff Etude is coming along, finally. I played it through slowly, once more before going to bed, making sure each note was perfect, so that next time I played it I would have the memory of that controlled beauty.

I'm becoming better friends with the Erard, upright though it may be. I hate having people peer over my shoulder in the practice rooms, to compare their technique to mine, or simply to remind me that I'm going over my time limit. Sometimes, it's just more comfortable to be here.

Alone. In my cluttered apartment. Books queing on the floor for the crowded bookshelves. Another simple meal, half-finished, on the single-chaired table. A bouquet of already-fading flowers I bought myself to remind me that at least one person in the world cares.

Shit, I miss having a roommate, ditzy and absentminded, thinking about love rather than music.

My phone buzzed, and I checked it hurriedly. One new message from Kahoko.

Hey! I hope you're doing well in London!

Just wanted to let you know, Ryou may be a terrific accompanist, but he's way meaner than you.

Take care.

-Kaho

I smile a little grimly to myself. "Ryou", huh? Well, ain't that convenient. Oh, I shouldn't judge. I pushed her into it as much as anyone else. But...you know?

You know? I feel sorry for Tsuchiura.

Sure, he got the girl at the end. Sure, perseverence paid off. Okay, he "won", if you will.

But everytime she sighs, everytime she smiles wistfully, or looks off unseeing into the distance, he'll know what she's thinking about. He'll know that her mind is wandering off, to what was, or what might have been. And he won't be there in that daydream.

A hollow victory, if you ask me.

Author's Notes:

The end! Finally! Yeah, this is a strange place to leave off. I feel like the last chapter has more of a "finished feeling", but I wanted to give a bit of Usa's brain to you, unmined ore that it may be.

Sorry for not responding to reviews (again)! Life is a bit crazy for me right now...travelling can suck the life out of you, even though it's totally amazing in the end.

I am, as of now, working on a sequel! And back in the States at last! So we'll see how that goes...I will try very hard to keep updating weekly. I don't see the next story being as (quote) "epic" or philosophical as this one. It will have loads of Kaho/Ryou, quite a bit of action, mystery, intrigue...a different genre altogether, if I may say so. I hope it's not as much of a let-down as most sequels are.

Update: The sequel is being written now. Title: The Secret of the Guarneri. Updated Saturday evenings.
(Don't worry, it's not nearly as depressing as this one.)

Thanks for reading! Watashi wa honto ni ureshii da yo!

Ja ne!