It's time to consider whether or not to go to Russia.
The question of whether to pursue a career as a performer or as a scholar has been hanging in the air since I signed with De Zhi. From the time I first came to Germany until I graduated from graduate school, this question seemed no longer relevant, until I received a reply from my doctoral advisor. I had to seriously think about whether these two identities are contradictory. In fact, I have always felt that I found an excellent balance between business and academia. Similarly, in my relationship with Yan Feng, I have found a dynamic equality. On the path to pure love, both he and I independently chose to evaluate the value of true love through the realization of desire. This reminds me of a story about a monk in Japan who burned down the Golden Pavilion because of his greed for its beauty. In his belief, the value of all things lies in uncertainty, which is the foundation of living and continuing. Nothing exact can confirm its truth. Hovering between the construction of bridges to reach the truth is the "indulgence" of truth, which can only overlap the beauty in the imagination and the reality by continuously extending beyond. The dislocated space constantly entices Yan Feng and me to explore, never being able to dispel the fog of "love" and "non-love".
This reminds me of the story behind Chopin's Prelude Op. 28 No. 15. At that time, Chopin's lung disease was very serious, so George Sand took him with her two children to Majorca, imagining that the warm sea breeze and sunshine of Mallorca could alleviate Chopin's illness. Unfortunately, when they arrived on the island, it happened to be the rainy season in Mallorca. Therefore, this prelude would not have been possible without erroneous expectations. However, I don't know if it was because of this period that Chopin's death came earlier. So you see, the gap between expectation and reality keeps art alive but creates a tragedy for physical life. Therefore, not choosing to put ideas into practice is kindness to life and also a source of artistic vitality. In short, pure love probably exists in fantasy, and fantasy is the remedy of art. Neither of us dares to approach reality, sketching out his perfect image with a pen in the unknown entirety. This is how Yan Feng is to me, and I am to Yan Feng.
Countless followers of him and those who follow me are no different. Without worship, there would be no love for a person. Thus, loving a person is always a tragedy because people are not worthy of worship. Worship is fanatic and irrational; it can only exist in the illusion of fantasy. I recall Wang Zhen's discussion a few years ago about the relationship between "art" and "religion," and love is similar. Seeking a mate is akin to creating a deity, enticing the other person into the trap of romance with illusions. To reach true love, one must pass through emptiness, achieving eternal life in absolute belief. But evidently, I am not willing to take that step. Both he and I stand before the temple, hesitant, or rather, we are both like disciples indulging in the sensory pleasures of sight, sound, smell, taste, touch, and thought.
Therefore, when faced with a choice, I tend towards appeasement because I want to have all possible options open. If all goes well, by September of next year, I will be able to enter the Tchaikovsky Music Academy to continue my doctoral studies. Lin Su and Dai Yanzhi did not give me a hard time about this matter, as the successful tours over these years and the moderately commercialized packaging meant that De Zhi did not have much to say about my devoting only half my time each year to work. However, there was one thing that worried Dai Yanzhi a bit. Last year, De Zhi signed another pianist, Lu Sang, who was born in the same year as me. Lin Su heard about this news when I first signed with De Zhi, but for some reason, Lu Sang did not appear in the company's announcement at that time. I didn't care much about others' fortunes, and moreover, I didn't think he would pose any threat to me. Dai Yanzhi, however, started calling me from time to time, asking about my repertoire and my graduation from graduate school. Although the topics mainly revolved around the trivialities of my studies and work, his increasingly frequent contact made me sense his unease. One day, I couldn't help but ask him.
"I feel like you've been quite nervous lately. What's going on?"
"Well, nothing," he drawled out after the 'well.'
"Come on, there's nothing we can't talk about." I pretended to be calm; there were few things that could make Dai Yanzhi nervous. He never cared much about anything, not because his attitude was improper, but because he was rational and optimistic, and approached work with professionalism.
"Actually, Aunt Zhang is a bit worried about you too," he didn't directly answer my question.
"I know my mom; she's been calling me a lot lately."
"Well, let me tell you. It's just that Lu Sang signed with De Zhi. Actually, it's not a big deal, but since graduating from Curtis, he's been based in Beijing, and De Zhi intends to promote him as a key performer in the Chinese market. I've heard that the publicity and related commercial activity budgets have been approved, although I don't know the exact figures, I know it's substantial." He paused for a moment. "I'm not trying to pressure you; I think pursuing your PhD is the priority. But capitalism is ruthless; as for the public, their memory is short-lived, and the audience is insincere. So whether it's money or fame, they won't care about your long-term development, or even your life and death, they'll consume you without leaving a bone."
I had never heard such a serious lecture from Dai Yanzhi before, and I had never thought about the nature of fame and fortune. In the past, I never performed for fame and fortune; it was all instinctual until the halo of the Chaikovsky Prize shone over me, blinding me. Many people engage in their talents, achieve success through their pursuits, and lose their talents because of success; they grow tired of success.
"It's not that serious," I blurted out. "I haven't thought about it that much; anyway, I'm definitely going to pursue my PhD. As for Lu Sang's situation, what did Lin Su say?"
"He wasn't planning to tell you now; he wants to talk to people at De Zhi first."
After he said this, I realized for the first time that many pieces of information were in other people's hands. Although I didn't care about Lu Sang's existence, I didn't want to be forever trapped in a glass case, passively waiting for monopolized information. I began to recall that since signing with De Zhi, many resources were introduced by Wang Zhuo, and many business matters were actually managed by Lin Su. The other employees of the Beijing brokerage firm were all under their control. I was mostly in Europe, and Dai Yanzhi probably found it difficult within the company. But he unexpectedly said those words just now, and I was suddenly quite moved. I remembered when he first became my agent, he joked with me about a Burberry trench coat, and although he no longer cared about such things, I never thought he was a materialistic person. Because he never guided me to give up my studies for my career, and even encouraged me to continue my PhD.
"Yanzhi, thank you for letting me know. I will consider pursuing a PhD seriously. If you have any difficulties in Beijing, feel free to talk to me. Also, regarding Lu Sang, you don't need to worry too much. Each record company has its own market, so every performer has their own market. He earns his money, I earn mine; what's important is to do good music."
"Why are you suddenly so polite? I'm not used to it," his sudden laughter came through the phone, as if the air in Hanover was vibrating slightly with the electric current. "Don't thank me; just hurry up and hire another assistant, or I'll be worn out."
"I'll consider it," I promised him, because I understood why he had been emphasizing the assistant issue with me. Beijing and Europe needed people familiar to both Dai Yanzhi and me for future work, so we wouldn't be so passive.
"Oh, by the way, how's He Tiantian?" He brought up a former classmate from the music academy; her name seemed distant to me now.
"Not interested." Thinking of He Tiantian's past infatuation with me, my immediate response was rejection.
"I know your concerns; she has a partner now, a girl. And, by the way, her partner knows Yan Feng."
"What?"
"Do you think everyone has to hang themselves on your tree?" Dai Yanzhi burst out laughing, perhaps feeling a slight tremor of insecurity about the idea of He Tiantian moving on.
"No, I'm not surprised because of her moving on. I'm surprised that her partner is a girl, and she also knows Yan Feng."
"You have a boyfriend, and yet you won't let others have girlfriends. As for her partner knowing Yan Feng, it's because after He Tiantian graduated from Sichuan Conservatory, she went to Juilliard for graduate studies and met her girlfriend in New York."
"...Alright." I thought it over. He Tiantian was at least a childhood friend, someone I knew well, and her girlfriend knew Yan Feng, which would make it easier for me to arrange future meetings with Yan Feng.
"Great, it's settled then. There's no rush in these coming months; I'll communicate with He Tiantian by the end of the year, and then we can start working with her. Your schedule for the latter half of the year isn't too busy, so focus more on preparing for your PhD enrollment. As for Lu Sang, as long as you're confident, that's what matters."
"Got it. By the way, He Tiantian has a partner now, what about you?" I rarely heard Dai Yanzhi talk about his own affairs over the years.
"Same as you, I'm a bird without feet, never able to stop." He took a sharp breath, causing a hissing sound from the microphone.
"I'm not like you," I retorted, feeling a bit defiant.
"Mm. Alright. I know," he didn't argue back.
He hung up the phone, the calm tone of his voice bringing me comfort, and my heartbeat synced with the rhythm of the fading sound. I curled up on the sofa in my Hanover home, looking at the two windows in the narrow living room. The white-painted window frames neatly framed the outside view into uniform rectangles. Outside, the branches of the tree, which had withered seven times, showed no sorrow; it would surely sprout new buds in the coming year. The pure white wooden floor and pristine walls reflected the outside light, casting a glow on the branches of a southern Judas tree, expressing its anticipation for spring. This anticipation crept into the room through the simplified Baroque-style carvings on the walls, extending from the vertical surfaces to the crystal chandelier around the ceiling. Each glimmer of light reflected by the crystals reminded me that it was dinner time.
Today, I would walk to Königstraße 55 and eat Cantonese cuisine at the Rainbow Restaurant, inviting my Korean classmate Lee to join me. Later in the night, we would open a bottle of red wine at his place, slowly revealing my plans for pursuing a PhD. He would surely be happy for me; we always maintained a poised and appropriate friendship.
I was starting to fall in love with this subtle little city, just as I was about to leave it. However, I wouldn't linger too much here because the unknown cities stirred up more emotions within me, and I was full of anticipation for life in Russia. Throughout my music career, I rarely delved into Russian musical works. Several years ago, my collaboration with Seiji Ozawa and the Berlin Philharmonic was my first public challenge with Russian repertoire. Prokofiev's Second Piano Concerto is widely recognized as one of the most difficult concertos. The technical challenges excited me immensely, and the immediacy of performing it was incredibly thrilling. Moreover, Prokofiev's colorful tonalities and unpredictable rhythmic changes allowed me to constantly navigate a synesthetic world between the past and the future. The orchestral part of this concerto's manuscript was destroyed during the revolution in Petrograd, and Prokofiev rewrote the concerto based on the surviving piano part. Because of its turbulent history, I grew to love it even more; its tumultuous narrative embodies a fleeting beauty of fragmentation and reconstruction.
Agrelli has never performed it, and Kisin repeatedly postponed practice. My live performances received countless applause and accolades from the industry; it's impossible not to be proud. But more importantly, I felt ecstatic due to the rare sense of freedom dancing across the keys. I especially adore the fourth movement, where my fingers sprinted like a spirit deer in a Siberian forest covered with snow. The flickering beats represented its pounding limbs, desperately evading the hunter's gunshots. For a relentless four minutes, it perspired profusely, yet remained within the sniper's range until it discovered a dark cave to briefly take refuge in. After a brief rest, it faced another crescendo, stepping heavily in despair, searching for the forest's exit. Many unconventional and dissonant chords quickened its heartbeat along with its legs. By the fourth minute, it began to gallop until it found the vast grassland, free from fear of the rifle, only needing to run, disregarding death, indulging in the tranquil freedom of resignation. This movement represents the highest lyricism of life; tears and sweat often blurred my vision during practice.
During that time, I began studying the works of modern Russian composers, who differed from the neoclassical and romantic pieces I had previously performed. Their creations lacked the constraints of European classical music yet avoided the modernist derailment; I greatly admired their compositions. Beethoven is undoubtedly great, but Prokofiev, Rachmaninoff, or Shostakovich— their mysterious musical colors truly fascinated me. Moreover, the era they lived in revealed a deeper existential significance of music to me. From that point on, I harbored the desire to further my studies in Russia.
Unfortunately, a month later, Yan Feng's obstruction and the mentor's passing abruptly halted my academic path.
If fate had not intervened, or if someone had rewritten my story like Prokofiev did with his Second Concerto, would I shine as brightly as the second movement of Prokofiev forever in the grandest music halls?