In 1987, a musical miracle descended upon a child. Art is the game of gods, each visitation a throw of the dice—a high-stakes gamble where the chips are the mortal flesh of ordinary people. The loss is a pure and joyful soul, and the gain is a transcendent power. Through the game of dice, an illusion of freedom in action is bestowed upon everyone, a means to escape the emptiness of life. I am that chosen vessel. Several years later, when I reminisce about that bright day, a voice comes from a distance, a resonant sound cutting through the clear sky. I felt as if I had discovered the world's most precious toy. In front of the music store's glass window, I couldn't move my feet. I had only one thought: I must own one.
The next day, my mother placed the toy on the coffee table—a black box with a row of black and white keys on a tablecloth adorned with white crochet. I saw myself eagerly reaching out to explore this toy with my hands. I was so impatient to find out how it produced sound. Little did I know that at that moment, I had entered into a game.
My mother, with a warm and joyful expression, watched as the naive and curious me attempted to pick it up. I exerted all my strength, but my frail body couldn't lift it, and I nearly stumbled and fell. Just as I was about to fall, my mother lent me a helping hand and lifted the heavy toy. She had me sit on a nearby small stool and placed the accordion on my legs. The accordion pressed against my thin legs, almost invisible under its weight, yet the excitement it brought me was palpable. At that time, I was unaware, but now I understand—it was the thick expectations from my loved ones. These desires brought me joy, and in the process of growing up, repeatedly fulfilling the expectations of others became the source of my sense of accomplishment, gradually turning into a vain satisfaction.
I touched the keys with my small hands, and the accordion emitted a buzzing sound. I burst into laughter. Like my father, I was usually reserved, but from then on, all of my emotions had a sound. My grandparents encouraged me with great joy, and my usually silent father, while looking at my smiling face, couldn't help but chuckle.
My grandfather came to Chengdu from the coastal areas during the war, bringing with him the refinement of the Jiangsu and Zhejiang people, especially in matters of food, he had a particular fondness for river delicacies. I was closest to my grandmother, who always spoke softly.
My mother was strict in her demands on me. In my childhood memories, I only slacked off on practicing the piano twice. On both occasions, she scolded me harshly. The second time was even worse. She picked up a knitting needle and aimed it at me. Unable to hit my hands, she lashed out at my thighs. My thighs were immediately covered in twisted and ugly red scars like earthworms. I ran to my grandmother in tears, and she shielded me, speaking with authority. Faced with her stern demeanor, my mother had to relent.
Later, in order for me to continue practicing the piano, my grandfather even gave up eating river delicacies just to save a little more money for a decent piano.
My relationship with music began under the nurturing love and hope of my entire family. The world unfolded before my eyes in an orderly manner, and I always believed that the present moment was the entirety of the world, until the next chapter began. For my five-year-old self, music was my entire world. I learned quickly, and my teacher said she liked the way I smiled, with two small dimples and lively eyes. My mother told me I had sincere lips, but I thought it was a misunderstanding. I had a lot of rebellious tendencies, but my sincerity toward music was genuine. Also, loyalty—since the age of four, I made a lifelong commitment to music.
I recall another memory – the first time I stood at the entrance of the music academy. The school's name was embedded in a plaque-like marble beam, and the sesame-gray marble exuded a cold sheen. Directly beneath the beam was a wide boom barrier, allowing only cars to pass through, while a small door on the side was opened for pedestrians. This was my initial impression of the music academy, and my dream of becoming a maestro seemed to welcome me from miles away with an aloof demeanor.
I held onto a corner of my mother's cool skirt with one hand, hiding behind her. My mother pulled my hand away and led me inside. Around the square in front of the main gate, to the left, were several seven-story teaching buildings and courtyards, resonating with the sounds of various instruments – French horns, clarinets, violins, and then, the piano. We stopped at the entrance of the piano courtyard, and I saw the sunlight filtering through the bamboo leaves. A gust of wind came, and dappled shadows danced on the ground, as if waltzing to the melody. My heart also began to beat rapidly, and I felt an inexplicable sense of pride.
Mother held my hand and stepped through the iron fence into the courtyard. At the entrance sat a spirited old man, wearing a white undershirt with a belt cinched above his navel and neatly hanging grey shorts. His hair, however, was unruly, flying in all directions. As our eyes met, his gaze became alert. He looked us up and down, and with a wave of the hand holding a straw fan, he straightened up.
"Who are you looking for?" The old man asked.
"We're looking for Teacher Dan," my mother replied, wiping the sweat from her temple, her body slightly turning towards the direction of the seats.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"Yes, we do. Do we need to inform someone?" My mother asked hesitantly.
"No need. Go on in."
"Thank you very much."
I walked alongside my mother like a docile lamb as she led me towards the residential building. In the courtyard, there were four flower beds symmetrically arranged, surrounded by four residential buildings. It felt like being in a shrine, disorienting with no clear direction.
"Oh, right, it's Building Four," my mother mumbled to herself. She then hurriedly pulled me up the stairs of the unit building. The walls were sesame-gray, and the embedded stones were clearly visible, layer upon layer, rising up to seven floors. The windows were neatly set into the walls, some covered by security bars, giving a sense of impenetrability. The hollow brick staircase, with sunlight filtering through the gaps, cast a shimmering light on the dust particles in the air, creating a rustling sound. By the time my mother and I reached the third floor, we were drenched in sweat. Summers in Sichuan were sticky and exceptionally hot.
The doors along the hallway were closed, and a cool breeze emanated from a slightly ajar door. With the breeze came fragments of a piano piece, floating in the air.
"Cutting the notes, give them half a beat. Da, da, de." A man's resonant and enthusiastic voice echoed inside, accompanied by the distinctive accent of southwestern Mandarin, bursting forth with an impact that shook the heart. There was also the sound of something tapping on the corner of a table.
"This should be it," my mother and I exchanged glances.
"Ah, you've arrived," the man's voice approached from a distance to near, "It's really hot today. Come on in and have a seat. I'll finish up with Li Li's lesson, and then we can listen to you."
The man, around his early forties, had neatly combed hair that shone brightly, concealing the faint lines at the temples. He wore a polyester short-sleeved polo shirt tucked into shorts, secured with a wide leather belt, presenting a very professional appearance. As our eyes met, his eyes transitioned from fatigue to brightness, and a faint smile appeared on his face. When he smiled, his eyes narrowed into a slit, smiling gently without making a sound, a complete contrast to before. He straightened his back, turned his body slightly, and placed a hand on my shoulder, giving it a pat. This was my mentor, Dan Zhiyuan, the best piano teacher in the southwestern region.
He then turned to the girl on the piano stool, holding a baton in his right hand as he stood beside her, conducting with one foot while using his left hand to correct the girl's hand position. He was instructing her on when to lift her hand, how her palm should feel like holding an egg, the fingers maintaining curvature, and keeping the wrist relaxed. After more than ten minutes, a study piece concluded, and the girl played a sonata again, once, twice, thrice, before Teacher Dan finally stopped.
"Alright, that's it for today's lesson," Teacher Dan closed the sheet music and said to the girl.
The girl packed up her sheet music and silently walked towards the door. "Come back for the lesson at the same time next week," Teacher Dan said. "Send my regards to your mom."
"Okay. Thank you, Teacher Dan," the girl turned around and replied before disappearing into the hallway.
"Li Li started learning piano with me about half a year ago, and she has made significant progress," Teacher Dan looked at me and said. "Come on, sit over here on the piano stool." I obediently sat down.
"You know how to read sheet music, right?" Teacher Dan asked.
"Yes."
"This is the keyboard for the central C of the C major scale. The scale starts from here and is a seven-note scale. Start your practice with the scale, and for today's lesson, let's get the finger technique for the scale down first." Teacher Dan demonstrated while explaining, "Begin with the most basic scale, playing two octaves starting from C. Keep your wrist relaxed, form a fist, gradually relax, lift your fingers, and maintain a beautiful curve. Pay attention to the finger technique."
With just one demonstration, I smoothly played the basic scale with both hands. I saw Teacher Dan nod slightly, his brows relaxing, expressing satisfaction. I just knew that I was born to play music, and the piano was the inevitable choice. This was the beginning of my journey with the piano, and from the first lesson, I fell in love with it. I loved the powerful sound it produced and its expansive range. More importantly, I loved the applause, the ecstatic expressions of the audience. I enjoyed being admired, and I was destined to be admired.
Whenever people admired me, I often found myself distracted or aloof, but they only became more enthusiastic. Sometimes they expressed their admiration, and I felt they were shallow. In this shallowness, I found myself becoming more elevated. The more people enjoyed my performance, the less they could perceive my inner world. This distance allowed me to quietly savor the pure beauty of music. People's shallowness nurtured my sense of superiority. They even claimed that it was the immersion in this sense of superiority that gave me the appearance of a genius, making me more unruly with each passing day.