After signing with EMI, my performances have decreased significantly, giving me more time to practice the piano and enjoy life. Occasionally, Yan Feng and I have meals at home. Actually, I cook while he washes the dishes. Because I don't have virgin canola oil, I can't make authentic Zsechuan cuisine, so I adjust the recipes. Braised chicken wings, steamed yellow croaker, and garlic lobster are some of our usual favorites. Sometimes I accidentally cook too much, and Yan Feng calls Bai Jingrui, who always shows up with He Tiantian and Dai Yanzhi. Dai Yanzhi, as usual, never shows a good face to Yan Feng. He gets nervous when he sees me chopping vegetables with a knife, scolding Yan Feng for not being considerate and warning me not to give him more work. If I cut my hand, he would have to deal with the insurance company. I smile apologetically at him, speed up to finish cooking, and then he stops nagging. They all praise my cooking skills.
I occasionally go for a morning run in Central Park by myself. Yan Feng doesn't seem to like Central Park; he gave me a membership card for a gym he used to visit every day while he was in the United States. When we're not working, we both stay in New York. Over the past few years, Yan Feng and I have spent about half our time in New York. On weekends, we occasionally go to Broadway to watch musicals. Within a year, we had watched Chicago, The Phantom of the Opera, Miss Saigon, Jersey Boys, and Gatsby. Because of him, I started to like opera and jazz music. These informal musical styles feel very welcoming, and the improvisational performances make me feel very relaxed.
Returning home at night, we lie on the walnut bed. I look at the French plaster moldings on the ceiling, where vines and flowers grow around the delicate crystal chandelier. Reaching out my arm to grasp it, Yan Feng's hand catches mine.
"So beautiful," he says.
"Yes, I really like Art Deco."
"I used to feel like Gatsby, coming to New York from an obscure small town, chasing an untouchable dream. Although full of hope, in the end, it was all for nothing. But since you came to New York, like now, holding your hand, my dream feels so real." He holds my hand, tracing my fingertip with his fingernail.
After many years of piano practice, the thick pads of my fingertips have lost some of their surface sensitivity. Only when the sharp edge of his fingernail digs into a certain spot of my fingerprint do I feel pain. Recalling our time in Berlin, it was then that I began to truly feel alive. In our small apartment on the Manhattan Peninsula, this was our utopia. I once thought we could spend our whole lives this way until the proposal in Australia.
Sometimes I really don't understand Yan Feng. He often acts on his own whims, ignoring others' opinions. When I thought we could live anonymously in a foreign country, he returned to the Asian stage. He is obsessed with the feeling of fame, and so am I. This has long been unrelated to the wealth we possess. If we can have both fame and money, and love as well, we certainly wouldn't willingly give up any part of it. Yet he made such a move to propose, putting everything we have at risk.
He is so strange, no, he should be called greedy. Although I am younger than him, I have to remind him of these things. Clearly, he is my elder brother, yet when we quarrel, he begs so humbly and cries so unabashedly that I always soften and can't say a word. I end up holding him, stroking his hair like I'm comforting an injured puppy. Thus, we have spent another two peaceful years. Our time in New York will forever sparkle in the flow of time, like a distant meteor, both near and far, within reach yet never seen again.
"I'm going back to China. You can live the way you like." In October, I lay in bed with him. Our bed felt like a tiny bamboo raft, swaying with the paddles and sails that Yan Feng and I were maneuvering. I should have told him this in Australia: if we can't be open about it, we shouldn't get married. If we're not getting married, continuing this secret affair—being hunted by the media in China, hiding from our families, pretending to be someone else in front of our fans, only to return to New York as if nothing happened—is not worth it. Even at home in New York, when he opens the mailbox and looks at me with a flicker in his eyes, I can't meet his gaze. I pretend to get some water, and when I return, we just look at each other in silence.
One night in September, things finally came to a head. Bai Jingrui's father found out about her relationship with He Tiantian. Mr. Shan called me, and aside from discussing He Tiantian, he listened to my latest recording of the Chopin Concerto and scolded me, particularly for mingling with the entertainment industry. The next day, senior executives at EMI talked to me about my contract, which was due to expire. They had invested in publicity but didn't get the expected returns. Young pianists are flooding into the classical music market like a new wave. It's somewhat ironic that classical music has such an old-fashioned aesthetic, yet audiences always prefer young faces. These years of trials in the overseas market have made me realize that in Western society, classical music isn't a luxury; it's hard to make money purely from ticket sales. EMI's terms for me were very harsh, and there was no possibility of other business developments in the overseas market. I didn't have a likable persona. Even though Yan Feng is an American-born Chinese, he didn't choose to make money in the Western market either.
His fame and status now far surpass mine. When he's in New York, he often isn't home, saying he has social engagements. He comes back late at night, always smelling of alcohol, occasionally bringing me gifts—jewelry or clothes. When he hands me these items, an inexplicable anger rises within me. He has never been arrogant towards me. Whenever I practice the piano late into the night, waiting for him on the piano bench, his approaching gaze feels like a dagger, cutting through his condescending expression. The colorful neon lights outside the window cast shadows on his profile, and the twitch of his asymmetrical mouth highlights the act of charity, a series of scenes that make me uneasy. The rest of the time, I have no idea where he goes. I don't read Taiwanese media reports, nor do I go online, because we live together, and I always feel that I am closest to him.
Forget it, if he told me he was willing to give up everything for me, I would agree. But he won't.
At 29, my once-proud piano no longer brings me the glory it did when I was 18. Everything is precarious. Unlike Pollini, I love art, but I also want art to love me back. This feeling of love is built on positive feedback—first, it was the encouragement from teachers, then winning awards, and later the numbers in my bank account. If there is no reward, I would rather not have it. I never crave one-sided love. This applies to love as well. The situation is clear: when I questioned him, it was proven once again that Yan Feng doesn't love me that much, and I am unwilling to endure, even if "enduring" is my own choice. But every time I see him being adored by thousands on stage at a concert, under the intense magnesium lights, the bizarre reflections in his eyes, I can't see my own shadow. Standing behind him, I see nothing else, and others can't see me either.
Is it inevitable that those who are close will always become competitors?
On the last day of September, I received an email from Wang Zhen. She had settled in the UK, secured a high-level position at an auction house, and married someone from the London Chinese Business Association. Her father, Wang Zhuo, had lost his official position. Finally, the biggest obstacle to returning home was gone. I told Dai Yanzhi, and he said, "Here's another piece of good news: President Wan has invited you to perform at next year's Spring Festival Gala."
The day I parted with Yan Feng again, the autumn wind was blowing incessantly. Due to the strong wind, the flight was repeatedly delayed. Dai Yanzhi and I watched the mist rise over the distant sea from the airport lounge, a layer of white gauze veiling the farther ocean. Further south lay Bermuda, where many flying machines have been lost. Dai Yanzhi started talking about how some of those aircraft seemed to have fallen into cosmic wormholes, disappearing suddenly over the Atlantic and being found days later in unknown corners of the world. I said, in that case, Bermuda isn't so scary, it's more like rolling dice.
He asked me, "Will you be sad?"
"Aren't you sad?"
"I used to be, but not anymore. Now I realize that some people are not suited for communal life. For example, I am naturally inclined to live in solitude."
"You indulge in pleasures. I am different from you."
A bitter smile briefly flashed across his face, then his expression became stiff.
"Come with high hopes, leave with disappointment." He didn't dare to look at me.
"Not really." I glared at him.
"True. If you knew ten years ago that you would have this much money now, what would you have done?" He picked up the glass, blew on the tea bag filled with hot water.
"I don't know. My dream back then was always to be a pianist."
"And Yan Feng?"
"..." I didn't want to speak. Even a casual brush-off, any random word would betray my sorrow.
"Everything depends on fate. Right now, your greatest connection is with the piano. I think when you return to China, you will reach the peak again. We are not the same as before..."
"Immature?" I grinned at him.
He laughed heartily.
"I know you have never been afraid of anything." He stopped laughing and added, "You just want to play the piano quietly. As for Yan Feng, I've always felt that you and he are not the same kind of people."
I remained silent.
"Alright, if there's another delay, I'll have an empty stomach." He said, getting up to go to the bar to find some food.
Living with Yan Feng for a year and nine months, he introduced me to An Dao, and I introduced him to Tan Yin, shuttling between many circles. With him as the center, our affairs formed circles, known to people within the circles, but beyond these circles lay countless more. One day, news would spread beyond these circles, into forbidden territory. I didn't know which circle the public belonged to. What was clear was that he gradually became the center, with a centrifugal force gradually pushing me to the periphery, towards the edge of the forbidden zone.
Throughout the end of the year, I was preparing for the Spring Festival Gala in Beijing. Although it had only been two years, the faces at the Music Association had changed. Thankfully, Lin Su didn't appear. Teacher Zhou had become the Deputy Minister of Culture. Director He invited Teacher Zhou and me to dinner for the Spring Festival Gala. Unfortunately, as the dinner ended, I ran into Lu Sang at a bar with some friends from the Music Association. Dai Yanzhi had been giving me meaningful looks all along. When I was asked why I terminated my contract with EMI, I answered truthfully.
"Because they kept assigning me incompatible producers. I've worked with him before, and I really couldn't agree with his musical ideas. He's not even a pianist," I said.
"Hahaha, I heard about it," Lu Sang laughed. "You bought a ticket back to the US from London that same afternoon, didn't you?"
"Lu Sang is really sharp, he knows all these trivial matters," Dai Yanzhi said, raising his glass to Lu Sang.
"Oh, and your good buddy... Yan Feng," Lu Sang continued. "I heard from Director He that he's also going to be on the Spring Festival Gala this year."
"..." The bartender handed me a glass of whiskey, and my hand trembled slightly. Due to inertia, the drink spilled onto Lu Sang's cuff.
Dai Yanzhi inserted himself between me and Lu Sang.
"Don't you know?" Lu Sang raised his glass slightly.
"I haven't heard," I took a sip of my drink, trying to evade the topic.
"Really? I heard Minister Zhou mention it the other day," Lu Sang dragged his glass across the marble tabletop with his hand.
"Hahaha, isn't Yan Feng American? How could he be on the Spring Festival Gala?" Dai Yanzhi interjected, holding his glass to his mouth.
"Yeah, I hadn't thought of that," Lu Sang said, then two men passed by us, laughing together. He glanced disdainfully at them, then chuckled.
"The times have changed," he leaned in closer to me, tilting the bench slightly, and whispered, "I heard same-sex marriage is going to be legalized."
After speaking, he leaned back into his seat, straightening up.
"How do you know everything?" Dai Yanzhi almost rolled his eyes at him.
"Didn't you watch the CCTV report a few days ago? Those who discriminate against homosexuals have all been refuted," Lu Sang replied.
"Is that so?" Dai Yanzhi glanced at Lu Sang, chuckling.
Before dawn, my phone began vibrating. Thinking it might be a call from my agency, I picked it up without delay.
"Xi Xi, I'm going to Beijing. Director He asked me to write something and perform a duet with you."
"What?" I thought I was still dreaming.
Fate always seemed to be playing jokes on me, as if my life wasn't my own but a story written by someone else. I had never imagined sharing obscure love with Yan Feng in front of millions of people's eyes. I always thought fate was favoring me, just like I could win the Chopin Championship at the age of eighteen. My extraordinary love story could also proceed smoothly. The two years of hiding in the United States were just a period of rest. Returning to Beijing, my career could go smoothly, and so could my love life.
Later, Teacher Zhou approached me for a conversation, bringing along another committee member. We discussed not only my artistic career but also my personal emotions. I never imagined that in 2014, we could openly discuss homosexuality. In fact, that committee member was also one of them. Although others' opinions didn't matter much, it wouldn't hurt to have the blessings of others. When Yan Feng knocked on the door of my Palm Springs apartment, I naturally returned to his arms. This time, if there were legal endorsement, would he still be unfaithful in front of everyone's eyes?
"I want to answer you: the lifestyle I like is being with you. This time, you can't run away. Everyone can see," he seemed to be able to kiss my soul through my bones every time.
Every time we argued, broke up, his sweet words always flowed endlessly. It's not that I chose to believe his words, but I believed that each day we spent together was a new beginning.