The Tchaikovsky Conservatory is located several hundred meters east of the Moscow city center, along the Moscow River. Its elegant neoclassical architecture forms the main body of the campus. Looking south from the main concert hall, you can see the colorful and pointed roofs of the Red Square. Each full roof is embedded with blue, red, or green swirls, extending to the base of the crosses at the highest points of the roofs. This is the symbol of St. Basil's Cathedral, as well as a secular symbol of the heavenly city. These crosses are different from the Christian crosses, with an additional slanting stroke at each waist, a mark of the Eastern Orthodox Church. Such symbols have another interpretation on the Berlin Wall: the light kiss of two men. With this in mind, my affection for Moscow has also gained this stroke of intimacy, in terms of the city's landscape and my personal feelings.
The Moscow River curves through the city center, and the city's ring road unfolds along the intersection points of the curves, with the city's roads radiating from the focal points. From a distance, the city map appears orderly and neat, but upon closer inspection, every street is cut into haphazard alleys. Some scattered green patches are embedded at the intersections, arranged in eerie shapes, resembling coniferous forests struggling to survive in the cold temperate climates. Just the thought that Moscow's latitude is even higher than Berlin's sends a shiver down my spine. I don't like birches, nor oaks or elms, or even poplars, as these trees always seem to wear less than I do in winter; their bare branches make me feel colder than the cold itself. Many times, I find myself imagining that the goldenrain trees from my hometown could grow in every corner of the world, evergreen throughout the seasons, never shedding their leaves.
I'm unclear about the orientation of the city. All these vivid descriptions are what He Tiantian helped me gather; it seems she is even more eager about Russia than I am. I guess, perhaps Moscow to her and Bai Jingrui is like Majorca to me and Yan Feng. Sometimes freedom has nothing to do with society, only with being a stranger: because of being a stranger, one is lonely, and because of loneliness, one is free. This is something I gradually realized upon coming to Germany. My freedom has led me elsewhere, and this gust of wind has never blown in Yan Feng's direction.
On several Sundays, I walked the streets of Berlin. The west wind from the North Sea lifted the corners of my clothes, and the dark clouds floated northward, obscuring the last hint of the sun's red light. Wang Zhen's Ferrari was parked at the entrance of the apartment, shining brighter than the sunlight. She was as dazzling as the Ferrari. Before graduating from graduate school in spring, I made a trip back to China. Upon landing in Beijing, I went straight to the flagship store near the airport and bought a car identical to Wang Zhen's, its bright red gleaming all the way back to the Palm Springs community in Chaoyang District. The doorbell rang, and looking at the video screen, she wore square Chanel sunglasses, glancing around, afraid of being recognized. In fact, we had been caught by paparazzi many times, but I didn't care. Even in places with tight security, journalists have many ways to penetrate. I didn't know what she meant; she seemed even more indifferent to this relationship than I was. Her indifference made Wang Zhuo think that I was pursuing his daughter, which reassured me.
Mixing personal emotions with work is always troublesome, making one seem very unprofessional. But with Wang Zhen and Wang Zhuo, it has become my advantage and resource. Because quite the opposite, from the beginning, between Wang Zhen and me, there was no real emotional attachment, and I wasn't afraid of any trouble.
"Ye Xi, you're here! Just now, Linsu told me that your doctoral studies at the Tchaikovsky Conservatory are almost confirmed. That's fantastic!" Wang Zhuo raised his hands high, as if I couldn't see him when I entered the private room.
Finally, no more vegetarian food. And it's Sichuan cuisine. Sausages made from black pork, Yaozhu chicken with tofu, hot braised pig's trotters, spicy chicken in chili oil, and sliced pig's ear salad. In 2012, you could still find very authentic Sichuan cuisine even in Beijing.
"Zhenzhen, sit next to Ye Xi. Today, we're keeping it casual, like a family feast," Wang Zhuo seemed to have already had some Chinese spirit, his speech was light and airy. He had been working at the Ministry of Culture for ten years, and as retirement age approached, he became more relaxed, even his drunken state was laid-back. "Isn't Xiao Dai coming today?"
"He has some work to handle. Ye Xi's new assistant started last week, so Yan Zhi also has to help out a bit more," Linsu handed me a wine glass, filling it up.
"Oh? Working on the weekend too? You young people are too hardworking. Speaking of the new assistant, Hetao Tian, I seem to have some impression of that young lady. She's quite a beauty," Wang Zhuo glanced at Wang Zhen when he mentioned the beauty.
"Haha, Director Wang's memory is impeccable. Nothing escapes Director Wang's eyes," Linsu picked up a transparent and delicate glass, his other hand flat to catch the glass raised by Wang Zhuo.
"I heard that girl is Ye Xi's classmate?" Wang Zhuo clinked his glass against mine and downed the liquor.
"Yes, Uncle Wang, He Tiantian is my childhood friend and also Dai Yanzhi's childhood friend," I toasted as well.
"Good!" Wang Zhuo raised his voice, "With them, along with Linsu as your right-hand man, and you going to Moscow, I feel relieved. I've watched you grow up, and now seeing you and De Zhi, the cooperation between various cultural departments, as well as the performances, all going so smoothly, makes me happy."
Whenever an elder says "I've watched you grow up," I always think incessantly about the expectations and help they have invested in me, as well as the entanglement. At that time, I didn't fully understand the term "entanglement." At least when the goals were aligned, the expectations and help from others were all beneficial. The Rolex endorsements, the stages of the National Theatre, the diplomatic receptions of the Foreign Ministry, the largest concert halls in the world—all of these couldn't be separated from Wang Zhuo and the help of many other individuals. A bigger stage was calling me. Wang Zhen always mocked me. Sometimes in the late night, she would peel off my clothes, riding me until the last moment when I lay on my back. She said I was always uncomfortable on stage; only when I was bare could I be truly myself. "Be careful of symbolism," she always warned me. "A woman's mercy." I lit a cigarette, burning away all theories. "You're Lin Daiyu, I'm not Jia Baoyu." "I'm not Daiyu, let alone Baochai." Her annoyed face, the lit cigarette butt, and the sparks flying simultaneously.
（Daiyu, Baoyu, Baochai are the main characters of Dream of the Red Chamber. Dream of the Red Chamber. is an 18th-century Chinese novel authored by Cao Xueqin, considered to be one of the Four Great Classical Novels of Chinese literature. It is known for its psychological scope and its observation of the worldview, aesthetics, lifestyles, and social relations of High Qing China.)
The dishes on the table were almost completely gone, with five people present: Linsu, Wang Zhen, Wang Zhuo, Wang Zhuo's secretary, and myself. This was the smallest gathering I had participated in, yet it was the one where we ate the most.
"What are your plans after completing your doctorate?" Wang Zhuo leaned in closer to ask me.
"I plan to do research, either at the Central Conservatory of Music or the Chinese Conservatory of Music."
"Are you really planning to play the piano for your whole life? There are plenty of positions at the Ministry of Culture," Wang Zhuo toasted me again, and I lowered my glass below his.
"Dad, you've had too much to drink," Wang Zhen snatched Wang Zhuo's glass and drank it herself.
"Hey, Zhenzhen, drink less. I'm discussing serious matters with Ye Xi."
I had never thought about pursuing a career in government. Playing the piano for a lifetime was the most beautiful wish I could think of. Upon reflection, Wang Zhuo's suggestion wasn't bad either.
"If you don't want to stay in Beijing, there's a position waiting for you in your hometown. I've already considered this matter for you," Wang Zhuo's cheeks flushed red under his rimless glasses from the alcohol. He glanced at Linsu as I looked at him. "Linsu isn't an outsider; he knows about it too."
Regardless of how my future unfolds, pursuing a doctorate is necessary. No matter where I go, I will always return to China. Despite my drifting, I am rooted in this land. Compared to the distant promises of small islands, Beijing is the most dazzling place of promise. The future that even Yan Feng cannot face himself will certainly not have my name in it. He doesn't have the power to determine my future; only I can decide my own future.
"Thank you, Wang Zhuo," I toasted Wang Zhuo back, the delicate, transparent wine glass clinking against his. Some of the 1573 spilled, along with a few yuan notes, but compared to the wine and French brandy of a family banquet, it didn't matter.
As night fell, Wang Zhen's jet-black hair flowed onto the corner of the red pillow, entwining around my hands like water grass. Her back was slender, and there was a slight protrusion in the center of her shoulder blades, clearer under the warm light of the bedside lamp as she reached for the Susan Sontag book on the bedside. This back was beautiful, a beauty that always made me forget about love. The contours of her shoulders were rugged, resembling a mountain ridge in the warm glow of the bedside lamp, with a sun waiting to rise on one side. It was a shame that I often couldn't distinguish between sunrise and sunset; to me, they were almost the same. I was glad I had sent that text last month; not receiving any reply from Yan Feng tonight made my heart feel more peaceful than ever. Over the past few years, he had achieved comprehensive success in both film and music, and I imagined that the names of the women in those tabloids could bring him more joy than I ever could. I genuinely felt happy for him; we had both returned to the right track. I had Wang Zhen, and he had many beauties to accompany him. Thinking back to a few months ago when he was discouraging me from going to Moscow for my doctorate, I found it amusing.
"What are you laughing at?" Wang Zhen suddenly turned around, her eyes blinking, her eyelashes brushing against my chest. I laughed even harder, feeling ticklish.
"Your eyelashes."
"You were laughing just now. Don't take what my dad said to heart."
"Don't you want me to come back to Beijing after finishing my doctorate?"
"No. Don't get ahead of yourself."
"Don't other women want to win my heart, or my body? Don't you?"
"I've already tasted your body, as for your heart, you better leave it to your piano."
"Aren't you afraid of hurting my feelings by saying that?"
"If you were really hurt, you wouldn't be asking me this question." She stroked my hair in a motherly manner, wrapping her index finger around a curl of my hair. For a moment, I almost thought she was Yan Feng. "I want freedom more than I want your heart."
"You can have both." I leaned in to kiss her lips; her lips were like a window. By exploring this window more, one could reach a stranger's heart.
"You said it wrong. You should have said 'I love you,' instead of 'you can have both.'" She pushed me away and laughed. "Sometimes I don't understand you. You're bad in bed, even worse at acting, yet so persistent. You have a big appetite."
Yan Feng had also used these four words to describe my persistence with alcohol. Fortunately, tolerance to alcohol can be trained, but once you miss the optimal age for saying "I love you," it can never be said again. Two types of understanding with age will lead to the missing of "I love you": reverence or disdain.
"It's okay, piano genius." She hugged me, her warmth against my chest different from that of a man's. Her disdain for love often made me misunderstand. She didn't have the typical woman's longing for love; she wasn't a broken half, she was complete on her own. After she said those four words, "piano genius," I suddenly felt a sense of defeat. Would she still be sleeping in my bed if I weren't a pianist? Would I still be Yan Feng's sunshine if I weren't a pianist? Putting these two questions together, it's truly absurd. I couldn't not be a pianist.
Realizing this, I could freely roam among the gentle mountains, penetrating the skin, beyond her and his souls, moving freely within the most hidden layers of the skin. I could climb to the limits of sound, travel swiftly to every corner of the world, record every note, cram it into the cochlea of every listener. They would even become addicted to this violence. Using my aesthetic to create a standard of "good" and "bad," training their biological instincts, becoming their moral judgment. They flock to it, regarding it as a criterion, holding it up as if it were divine decree, worshiping before it. Its power is so weak, it cannot save our souls. It can only lead humanity into noble degradation. This is the world's misinterpretation of art: beauty equals justice.
"You're truly a witch."
"Thank goodness you didn't call me Joan of Arc."
"You do have a similar look of a warrior. Fortunately, there are no more priestesses in this era."
"As you say, there are still witches."
She turned off the bedside lamp, her hair hanging like the tendrils of Medusa, sinking into my seven orifices. Even my pores began to tremble. In this moment of silence, I replaced her with Yan Feng's mask. Consider it a moment of indulgence in the bed that had grown cold over these past few months. Consider it a reward for the busyness that had turned day and night upside down. Why the mask was that of Yan Feng, I didn't know.
At that time, I was unwilling to admit that I missed him. A month later, when my doctoral supervisor in Moscow passed away, I reluctantly terminated the leases on my apartments in Berlin and Hanover, hiding in my home in Chengdu, practicing the piano all day long. Avoiding Wang Zhuo, Linsu, Dai Yanzhi, and even He Tiantian. I didn't want to seek out a new supervisor. I always believed that a compatible mentor was more important than the school itself. Even though he had passed away, even though I wasn't going back to Moscow, I wouldn't be with Yan Feng.
Wang Zhuo called me many times, and Linsu sent me many emails. All of them were urging me to reconsider pursuing my doctorate. I felt immensely annoyed by this. At twenty-four, I no longer cried over the TV that my mother had moved away without telling me. Practicing the piano became increasingly irreplaceable; it was the only thing that made me happy, like the ginkgo tree in the courtyard that had never been moved, giving me peace of mind.