After the inaugural piano lesson, Teacher Dan showered me with praise. Born to parents toiling in the steel mills, in 1986, my modest parents, with pinched pennies and the benevolence of grandparents, procured a weathered Pearl River piano for me. Guided by Teacher Dan's counsel, I delved into compositions by Thompson, Burgmüller, and Czerny. The intricate notes of Bach's inventions and fugues became my effortless companions, and within a fleeting three years, I found myself caressing the keys with Liszt's melodies. However, Teacher Dan harbored no admiration for Liszt; whenever my fingers danced upon his compositions, Dan's brow would knit, and his arms would instinctively cross. It was only in the embrace of Schumann's compositions that Dan unfolded. Schumann, with his grace and romance, spoke to my soul, while Liszt's ostentation seemed to sacrifice the artist's sublime essence. Teacher Dan lauded my ability to breathe life into Schumann's romantic delicacies, dubbing me a child rich in emotion, despite my perennial silence.
Even in my silence, I could never sit still. My mother once suspected I had ADHD. In the early days of learning the piano, I had to spend eight hours a day on school and homework, which was truly tormenting for me. Around second grade, I caught many earthworms and ants, stuck them on my homework paper, and placed it in the teacher's desk. When I got home, I was punished by being locked in a dark room for the night. Pleading with the excuse of practicing the piano, my dad finally let me out. As I opened the door, I saw my grandparents had also arrived, and I rushed into my grandmother's arms. My mother, seeing my state, couldn't bear it and gently stroked my hair. Grandpa even brought the latest Transformers toy. Despite the momentary injustice, I always forgave easily because I yearned so much for such embraces, as I could easily sense the love, a love as enduring as our daily dinner.
What I looked forward to the most was my mother serving dinner every evening. Sometimes it was tomato meatball and bean sprout soup, and I could devour eight meatballs in one go. Other times, it was stir-fried minced meat with pickled green beans, and I could easily have three bowls of rice. Dinner always started on time, and afterward, I could start playing the piano. The piano stool was magical. Its leather and sponge texture made it soft, and the solid wood frame gave it a sturdy feel, though it lacked a backrest—comfortable yet demanding. Every time I sat on it, it reminded me of Teacher Dan's advice, "Keep your back straight, legs apart with only a fist's distance between them." Hence, I loved sitting on the piano stool. When on it, it was the most beautiful time of my day. Even if I didn't practice the piano, I enjoyed sitting there doing other things. Sometimes, when tired from practicing, I played with the Transformers toy my grandpa gave me. Other times, I sat with my grandma as she did some sewing. Her eyes weren't as good anymore, so I helped her thread the needle. She always praised my nimbleness.
During piano practice, I could freely weave my own world in the delightful silence, a realm where I reigned supreme and undisturbed. The musical notes sometimes fluttered before me like papillons, and as I attempted to grasp them, they would soar into an intricate palace, the flawless intricacy of a fugue. I followed closely, reluctant to fall into a cavern—initially narrow, then opening into a Tchaikovskyesque bottom, where branches entwined and eyes witnessed the unfurling of green leaves, blossoms, and fruits. Leaves curled in shades of orange, yellow, and green; then, the branches became pure white, covered in winter snow. The winds of the four seasons cycled through spring, summer, autumn, and winter, sweeping across the vast Siberian continent. In the world of musical notes, I was Peter Pan, gracefully soaring at any moment, on an eternal island, receiving everyone's affection.
Apart from enduring school hours and relishing piano practice, in the remaining time, I would climb the tree between the music college concert hall and the teaching building in the garden. It was a unique gingko tree, unlike the typical tall and upright posture. It stood surrounded by unfamiliar low-rise buildings, and as I grew older and more knowledgeable, I learned that those buildings were of Soviet-style architecture, with some remnants from the Republic of China era. So, it stood alone in the ambiance of a foreign land, much like my delightful secret world. The gingko tree was low, with several thick branches forking at a height of about one person's length from the main trunk. About a meter above the fork, several branches extended, forming a perfect seat, making it an excellent climbing object. However, twelve years later, I learned from an old friend that many courtyards of the music college were no more. Tall buildings stood, covering the old structures. That tree had also been relocated, growing unrestrained and too tall for climbing.
From the age of 8, my mother and I rented a place in the courtyards around the music college. These courtyards were reserved for the families of the music college staff and were difficult to find. It was through Teacher Dan's connections that my parents managed to secure this rental. One day, after finishing my piano practice, though it was already night, my mother, for some unknown reason, was exceptionally happy. Daringly, I asked if I could go out to play, and she agreed. I sprinted from the outer courtyard of the music college to the tree. At that moment, I was surprised to find that someone had taken over my throne. The person looked a few years older than me, wearing flip-flops, a white sweatshirt, and khaki shorts with mud stains. I was not good at talking to strangers, but in that moment, I blurted out, "Could you share some space with me?" Another voice inside me said, "Get down quickly; this is my territory."
The person remained silent, gazing foolishly at the sky. My anger intensified, and I asked sharply, "Hello, may I ask what you're looking at?" Another sharp voice echoed, "Fool, if you don't come down, I'll make a move."
After ten seconds, unable to contain myself, I looked up. Moonlight, like water, illuminated the tears streaming down his face, creating ripples.
"Why are you crying?" I blurted out.
"Come up, and I'll tell you," he said nonchalantly, as if joking.
It was my first time striking up a conversation with a stranger, and I felt a bit unsure. However, eager to reclaim my throne, I quickly climbed up and sat beside him.
"I've just experienced a breakup," he said, lowering his head.
"What is a breakup?"
"More accurately, it's not a breakup. Starting from a year ago, every night, I would stuff gifts into his desk drawer—apples, plums, peaches, pens, or White Rabbit milk candies, and some others I don't even remember, but I do remember they were all precious to me. Just last night, I suddenly saw a few words written with a pencil on his desk, 'Who are you?'" At this point, he began to sob, pausing for a long time. I didn't know what to say. He seemed to be venting on his own, not seeking any comfort from me. Looking back years later, I felt he probably saw me, the "strange kid," as a safe person to confide in, like Alice encountering the rabbit in the tree hole in her dream, something that wouldn't appear in the real world again. It's just that later on, neither of us expected that we would become trusted confidants; he was Dai Yanzhi.
"But it doesn't matter anymore. Starting today, he won't receive my gifts again. It's okay; I haven't really lost him. I can still see him every day during physical exercises on a break." Ignoring my questions, he continued to speak rapidly. Then he turned to glance at me. "Kid, do you often come here?"
"Yes, my name is Ye Xi." I became more confused, not sure what this person was talking about.
"This place is nice. I'm Dai Yanzhi." He crossed his arms, turned his head back, and gazed at the moon.
"I used to be the only one here," I grumbled.
"Haha, not anymore. I'll be here every day from now on." After saying this, he stumbled and jumped down from the tree. I thought he might fall, but to my surprise, as soon as his feet touched the ground, he stood upright. My legs were not as long as his, and as I tried to catch up, he had already disappeared at the end of the unfamiliar low-rise buildings.
The next day was Saturday, the time for my lesson with Teacher Dan. I practiced Liszt for the entire day, which left me feeling uneasy. My papillons were darting wildly among the towering pillars, nearly colliding with them. The worst part was "Tang Huang's Memories"; he had modified Mozart's work, like using Victorian crochet on Gothic windows, adding another layer of decoration to the already complex and unbearable classical piece.
Like Teacher Dan, I didn't like Liszt, but for the competition preparation, I had to choose to practice it. Moreover, this piece was rarely used in China, and Teacher Dan had to search everywhere for the sheet music, finally managing to find it. As I reached the prestissimo section, I suddenly thought of what Dai Yanzhi had told me, about the person who received gifts, various things. I felt a sudden regret, and my hands hesitated in the octave, the rhythm stalled, and I played a wrong note.
My mom suddenly looked stern, and Teacher Dan stood up from the sofa, saying, "Xiao Xi, you're a child with rich emotions. It can be beneficial and harmful to your performance. You need to focus more on the score itself, let the rationality of the music guide your emotions. Don't modify the score with your feelings. Performers are like the instruments themselves; we are the vessels waiting to be struck or plucked, and our emotions are what resonates, not what produces the sound."
"Alright, I understand, Teacher Dan." With this, Teacher Dan undoubtedly strengthened my confidence. I was inherently a performer because I was never good at making sound. It only happened in certain moments when the resonant sound echoed continuously, as if it couldn't stop.
One month later, I flew to the Netherlands with my mother and Teacher Dan to participate in the Liszt International Piano Competition. When I finished the first piece, the audience couldn't help but applaud enthusiastically, an unprecedented occurrence in the competition. Later, I heard it might be due to my consistent charm, always unconsciously breaking unwritten rules.
As I approached the final piece, "Tarantella," which was my forte, even my papillon darted like a fawn. The Italian judges expressed their excitement to Teacher Dan, showering him with praise. I smoothly advanced to the finals and began playing "Tang Huang's Memories."
This segment made me somewhat anxious, and indeed, in the final section, Dai Yanzhi's tears were like a mirror, reflecting my own image. My secret world instantly vanished, leaving me alone in the center of a shallow lake, surrounded by pitch darkness. I played a wrong note; the dissonant sound was like a beam of light tearing through the darkness. I returned to reality, completing the performance accurately and flawlessly.
After the performance, Teacher Dan and my mother didn't blame me. Teacher Dan handed me a note: "Everyone gets nervous; it's normal. Believe in yourself, have firm confidence, play to your strengths, showcase your talent, and strive for the final victory." In reality, they didn't know that I didn't make mistakes due to nervousness. More accurately, whenever I performed in front of an audience, the intense stage lights blinded me from seeing the people below. So, I was always the king of my realm, whether playing pieces I liked or disliked. I excelled at crafting beautiful scenes for them. I moved through them effortlessly, but sometimes, inexplicably, one or two faces would appear—sometimes it was my senior Li Li, sometimes classmates, or strangers on the street, sometimes Seiya or other anime characters I loved. This time it was Dai Yanzhi. Each time, I could smoothly guide them to their seats, and after the performance, thunderous applause would erupt.
Next, I collaborated with the Netherlands Radio Philharmonic Orchestra to perform Liszt's "Piano Concerto No. 1 in E-flat major," my favorite concerto among Liszt's works, so it wasn't a difficult piece for me. Violins harmonized, French horns resounded, and my fingers began to dance on the black and white keys—whole tones, half tones, octaves, 32nd notes, at times lively, at times gentle. The five-minute composition quickly came to an end. As expected, applause erupted from the audience below the stage. I stood up, bowed, and left the stage.
My mother and Teacher Dan welcomed me backstage. I stood between them, waiting for the announcement of the competition results. At midnight, the chairman of the judges announced the results. I secured the third place and, simultaneously, won the online voting championship. Flowers from the audience quickly filled the backstage.
The Chinese Ambassador to the Netherlands came to congratulate me, and a Dutch performance agent said, "You are a true artist. To win such a significant award at the age of 9, you will undoubtedly become a world-renowned pianist in the future. The other two (the Japanese winner and the Italian runner-up) are only suitable to be teachers." A Brazilian judge remarked, "You are a true genius! If given another month, the first place would be yours. In my mind, you far surpass the first-place winner." Teacher Dan, in a melodic tone, praised, "Good child!" My mother hugged me, rubbing my sweaty hair. Interviews and photoshoots followed in quick succession. I hastily said, "Maybe I didn't perform as well as I could have, but it's my first official international competition, and I am happy to secure the third place. I hope to continue working hard in the future." Finally, I could get a good night's sleep.
The next day, as the sky just began to brighten, I woke up to a dazzling light shining on my face through the gap in the hotel curtains. Sitting up, I opened the curtain slightly and saw the garden outside covered in white snow. Excited, I quickly dressed, glanced at the adjacent bed where my mother was still sound asleep. I stealthily opened the door and rushed into the garden, scooping up the snow on the bushes with my bare hands. This was a sight unseen in my hometown, and I leaped around on the snow-covered expanse of the open field.
Teacher Dan, who was also out enjoying the snow, spotted this scene. He walked towards me with a smile, murmuring to himself, "After all, you are still a child."