1. This name comes from "The Moon and Sixpence," where Maugham's book extensively explores the conflict between materialism and artistic creation.
Forgiving others is like lending money at exorbitant interest rates, where the debt always accumulates with compounding interest. What is this interest? It must be something similar to what the debtor gains. Even worse, once such "forgiveness" is granted, one cannot escape the vicious cycle of interest compounding upon interest. Sometimes love operates in a similar fashion—debts and repayments endure longer than contributions because people may not always remember the giving, but they certainly remember the owing.
So, I gradually got used to this pattern of borrowing. Over time, I stopped calculating how much was principal and how much was interest, and I no longer expected anything in return. That's why I don't want to explain anything to him anymore. Wang Zhen sometimes stays overnight at my apartment in Berlin. On evenings before bed, she would watch a movie with me, mostly cult classics, because she said it made her more emotional when she worked that way.
The year before my undergraduate graduation, I met a South Korean guy who was in the same school and lived downstairs from my apartment in Hannover. Later I found out he was taking the same course as me, studying ancient performance. Sometimes he would sit next to me in class. One day I was practicing piano at school, preparing for a European tour. By the time I got to the apartment door, it was already 10:30 at night. He was standing by my open front door. I peeked inside, and my Steinway was missing. I thought I was being robbed. When I stepped through the door, I stepped into water; the whole living room was flooded. It was the first time he spoke to me. He said the water pipe in my house burst, and he and his classmates helped move my Steinway to the bedroom. Thanks to him, my Steinway was saved from harm.
Later on, sometimes we would sleep in his living room, always embracing with the lights off. When the streetlights shone through the wooden window frames, his dyed hair would reflect yellow light, reminding me of Yan Feng.
Yan Feng used to visit me every few days, now every three months, instead of every month like before. He's getting busier, and so am I. Every time I see him, I tell him he's lost that small-town American youth vibe and now looks like a pop superstar. He says I'm becoming more like a cool king, especially when I wore sunglasses during a recent concert in Beijing—it made him laugh endlessly. He also says that no matter what I wear, I still look like the little boy in his memories. Since last year, when we walk on the streets of Berlin, we get recognized. Later on, we started dating less publicly. As soon as he comes out of the airport, he dives into my Mercedes GLS and disappears into the attic on the west side of the Berlin Wall. The feeling of secrecy adds more excitement to this forbidden love.
Dai Yanzhi no longer nags me because since he found out about Wang Zhen and the South Korean guy, he knows I'm not drowning in love; I need emotions, stronger emotions.
Besides, life in a foreign country is always challenging. Sometimes I spend the whole day in the piano room, spending half a day practicing exercises, and the afternoon and evening rehearsing for exams, performances, or new album tracks. I see Teacher Wadi twice a week; he respects my ideas. Sometimes I play the same piece several times for him, each time different. I ask him which one is better, and he always asks me back. I suddenly feel that sometimes being arranged is a kind of freedom because I have more control—I make more decisions, from what to eat for every meal to arguing with De Zhi and the company's economists. It's like I'm controlled by a desire for control because I always want a more perfect result. This makes me very tired. Fortunately, there's Lin Su and Dai Yanzhi.
Dai Yanzhi graduated a year before me. After earning his bachelor's degree, he moved to Beijing and helped manage my business affairs with Lin Su. Lin Su remained dominant; in performance agreements, he shielded me from activities that didn't fit my image, like performing at pop singer award ceremonies or in food advertisements. Dai Yanzhi sometimes feared offending our partners and would always accompany them to dinner after meetings, then spend the night vomiting in the hotel bathroom. Eventually, he wised up and started pretending to drink, and I rarely saw him vomit.
One summer, when I was back in Beijing for a performance, Lin Su happened to see a beverage advertisement on the hotel TV. Yan Feng had just endorsed that brand, and Lin Su suddenly remarked how familiar Yan Feng looked, wondering if they had crossed paths in a Japanese hotel. Dai Yanzhi quickly intervened, saying Yan Feng was a big star, so of course he seemed familiar. Thankfully, Dai Yanzhi covered for me, and thankfully, Yan Feng and I were both becoming busier, with hardly any time for mainland dates.
Until before graduate school, I was seen as completely unrelated to the entertainment industry. It wasn't until the Taiwan debut when Chen Hanwen came to Beijing specifically to discuss commercial activities with the economic company that they prepared for me to be a concert guest of a popular pop singer, preferably performing a song with him. This time, Lin Su couldn't refuse. I always rejected playing pop music; pop music is nothing more than fragments of classical music, often chosen from the "climax" sections of movements. The simplified melodies not only castrated the entire movement, but the repetitive main melodies made it easy for people to remember. I always thought that unquestioned things were spiritual dictatorships. Simplicity robbed interpretative space; without translational space, art also ceased to exist. I have always believed that art exists in every misunderstanding. People always think that many classical music is obscure and difficult to understand. To me, music does not exist in understanding or not understanding. Only feelings are real, and beauty and ugliness are real.
Therefore, I never listened to pop music. Not because it's not beautiful, but because it's too simple, too standard. I couldn't possibly play pop music because classical music is as vast as the sea, enough to spend my whole life interpreting.
In the end, we agreed that after this pop singer's concert, I would perform a Turkish march with him. This was considered a compromise between the record company and the management company. It wasn't until after signing the contract that I found out this pop singer was arch-rivals with Yan Feng.
I was still immersed in the dry, cool summer air of Beijing when the sudden ringing of the phone shattered a piece of oxygen.
"Are you going to collaborate with Jay?" It was Yan Feng calling.
"How do you know again?" I didn't think Dai Yanzhi would tell him about the collaboration.
"Just answer my question." Yan Feng never spoke to me in such a tone before.
"Yes."
"Okay, got it. I just wanted to confirm this with you." He hung up abruptly.
At that time, I only knew this matter was important to him but didn't understand why. I remembered a long time ago, I clearly stated in an interview that I didn't consider playing pop music. This collaboration didn't seem to contradict my past commitments—I could play classical music at a pop singer's concert.
As September approached and the concert in Taipei drew near, the collaboration between Jay and me made headlines. All television stations broadcasted our live performance, and although internet media wasn't as prevalent as it is now, they all picked up the story. I found this experience quite novel. I discovered that I didn't need to solemnly pour emotions into music to receive applause, especially since I've always enjoyed expressing myself in the limelight. This collaboration not only brought unprecedented attention but had everyone talking about me. I suddenly realized the benefits of popular culture—despite being mainstream, it reaches far and wide.
Classical music, since its inception, has been enjoyed only by clergy or nobility. Even today, due to its form and length, it remains a niche interest. If this small group of enthusiasts continue to be elitist, classical music may only exist in academic textbooks in the future.
I don't care about others' evaluations; I want a huge sensation. The waves of the past were only in my personal experience, within the private realm of the music world. Perhaps this opportunity will lead me to find ways to expand my horizons. Moreover, when I think about Yan Feng and our distant promises, only more money can make them come true.
However, Yan Feng seems not to understand. In the month after my collaboration with Jay, he didn't contact me. I knew he was also in Taipei, and I again attributed his indifference to his busy work. When I learned from Dai Yanzhi that Yan Feng lost his composure at the concert, almost falling off the stage, I realized he cared about me. This was what he owed me. Over the years, I gradually realized that he loved me because I was his musical dream. He loved the specific me but loved the abstract me more. He could accept me sleeping with others but couldn't accept me playing music with others. Based on this understanding, I can add another debt on top of what he cannot repay. Lovers always hurt the most. Lovers understand each other more than enemies and always stab each other where it hurts the most.
However, this collaboration not only betrayed Yan Feng but perhaps also represented a betrayal of classical music for my former self. Teacher Wadi wouldn't say anything, but Teacher Dan sent me an email.
I still remember his teachings, much like I remember when I first started my graduate studies, he encouraged me to find a good match early on, to mutually encourage each other in the arduous pursuit of an artistic career. His email was concise but every word felt like a lump in my throat. One sentence at the end summarized everything, "Practice well, don't mix in the entertainment industry." Until today, I don't know if I began to decline from that time onwards. Did this decline start with an unserious attitude towards music or with seeking applause through performances? Even now, I don't understand. If art requires distance from the crowd, what is the value of art? If art is destined not to be understood by the majority, what is the purpose of artistic expression? But for me now, art is at least my eternal refuge.
When I read Teacher Dan's email, I began to think of the missing classmate from the past. Instead of striving for success and fame, is it happier to forever remain a child of the piano by Walden Lake in the mundane world? But later I heard that he was losing motivation to play the piano, and I started to suspect that everyone's soul has its limits, getting worn down in crowded places. I further doubted whether passion would dissipate without external approval. If one has to trade their soul for worldly approval, I don't know if that's a reasonable deal. However, such doubts vanish in an instant, washed away by the busy life. Each moment of reflection is forgotten in action, like bad debts of love settled in sexual acts.
After I finished my work in Taipei and landed in Berlin, Yan Feng was already waiting for me in the living room of the apartment. Besides myself, only he had the key to my apartment, so when I opened the door and saw him sitting on the couch in a leather jacket, looking out at the summer evening breeze moving the European olive trees on the balcony, I knew all his anger was roaring in silence. Nonetheless, he remained submissive, so I felt triumphant.
In matters of intimacy, the stronger his desire, the weaker his spirit.
I had just set down my luggage when he kissed me aggressively, almost biting my lip. He held me as I looked at the low clouds outside; the sunlight pierced through them, creating many small holes with shattered golden edges. The constantly shifting light made the gold gleam with colors—red, orange, yellow, green, cyan, blue, purple. Colors shouldn't have precise scales; they wove through sharp edges, a flowing spectrum. Each tremor made the iridescence more unpredictable.
As our bodies moved with the light, the gaps in the clouds filled with dazzling souls. Eventually overflowing, the cloud's volume grew immense, forming countless ice crystals, accumulating into heavy husks. The iridescence turned into deep blackness, refracting the sky's inherent blue.
The light clouds became cumulonimbus clouds; the first raindrop fell, forming a full, circular shape on the balcony's limestone, which was then covered by countless grey-black brushstrokes, merging into an increasingly broad dark canvas, heavy rain pouring down.
The intense rain beat against the softest corners of my body, where the souls within mocked Yan Feng's fragility and cursed the game he had initiated, plunging me into an irredeemable cycle. In this game, the wilder he became, the more obsessed I grew. The fiercer his actions, the more intense my pain; the more he owed me, the more I longed for his repayment. How I wished to sway with him in this city, teetering in the upside-down downpour.
It wasn't until he spoke his first words afterwards that I lit a cigarette. This round of settling scores ended, everything returning to normal, cycling endlessly.
"Are you heading back to Hanover tonight?" He tilted his head, the pristine bed linens casting a warm glow on his fair face.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," I said, exhaling smoke.
"Then let's do it again," he said, holding me tightly against his chest.
"I'll do it," I grasped his hands. "Are you angry?"
"I was at first, but not anymore."
"Why?"
"Because one day, you'll appear at my concert. Not only will you play the piano and classical music, but you'll also accompany me and sing with a golden voice."
"Don't overdo it, it's impossible," I broke free from his embrace.
I remembered Teacher Dan's advice—a stern whisper from the last century. For the sake of public aesthetics and the dissemination of classical music, art could be packaged, but never excessively. In the realm of painting and design, there existed pop art, seemingly addressing the audience's needs. However, performers were not creators, thus implementation seemed much slower than the concept.
I leaned close to Yan Feng's face, examining his features. The muscles on his face pulled at the corners of his mouth, his eyes narrowed to slits.
"It's my turn now," I lifted the covers, pressing against his burning waist.
I would find a way.