System.out.println("Hello world!")

It is said that you need two things in order to play piano. The first was the posture, the form; and the second was to play as if “you’re a king ready to deliver a state of the union address.” But one more element was needed: the ability to understand and read the music before you. Of course, this wasn’t needed if you produced your own music, but for those not talented enough to do so…

---

It was irritating to read sheet music. Eyes gazed across the inked paper, reading over page over page of lines and dots, small crosshatched notation and numbers signalling many many things. Letters represented words, words represented vagaries, and all of it composed the sound of Chopin’s Etude Op. 10 No. 3. Yet, Munin had heard so many versions of this music that it meant little. All of them were similar but each of them was a distinct iteration all held under the same label of Chopin’s Etude Op. 10 No. 3. So then, what was it really?

Munin glanced over at the piano that it had found, face unmoving as it gazed over the white and black keys. Its fingers arched in the same way that a tutorial had specified, exactingly curved, perfectly precise. It took a seat on a fragile bench, a soft creak sounding as it rested its weight upon the wooden surface. It looked upon the sheet music again, a frown coming across its face. The song was so intricate, so detailed, and yet not detailed enough. There was no absolute, nothing strict save for the rhythm of it and even that shifted, symbols failing to communicate what it should be.

Hands touched on keys which touched on hammers which touched on strings, and Munin sat there staring. It didn’t make sense. How was one supposed to play this when it did not say how to be played? How was one supposed to make the music when it was unknown what it should be? Of course it said ‘louder’, ‘quieter’, ‘speed up’, ‘slow down’, but so much of it was left in vague notation that meant… what? Munin say there, eyes looking over it again and again and again. The fingers hung there, as if awaiting a signal that would never come. It would never come.

The android couldn’t play it.
What was the order? What was the specification?
How was one to play what was left unknown and vague?

And so the figure sat there, like a statue of ‘Pianist Preparing to Play’. Eyes flicked from place to place, the chest rose and fell with minute breaths, and it simply looked upon Chopin’s Etude Op. 10 No. 3.

This was pointless.
Munin stood, hands straightening, moving away from the piano.
It couldn’t play. Why?
How was it to play what it could not know?
And how was it to know what it could not play?

His hands danced. A slow waltz, really. One hand leapt from key to key, making great strides while providing richness to the music. Like whipped cream to a banana split. The other kept timid, hanging close together while playing the same set of notes, but with a different flavor each time. Together they carried the melody and transformed scribbles of notes and crosshatches on a music score into something enchanted, real, and, well...Alive. The orchestrator of those hands seemed to delight in the sound he was creating. But was it his? Or was he just playing copy-cat? His glance drifted back to the score. He missed a few notes, butchered the timing several times, and stopped paying attention to signals of change in pitch. Certainly that couldn't mean the end of the world. Wouldn't that just mean he was making the music his? 

The music kicked up. Tempo increasing. Crescendo! Crescendo! His hands went into a frenzy. 
"You're a disgrace! You're going to ruin the music, aren't you?"

His mother's voice intruded his thoughts. His hands froze. What were once intimate dance partners transformed back into frigid steel rods incapable of flexibility. 
"Sit up straight! Where's your structure? Adhere to what the score calls for! Are you improvising? You're not Chopin!"

His back slouched. His head grew heavy, gravity nudging it downward. His view changed from the bright spotlights on the ceiling to the monochromatic keys on the piano. All black and white but no gray. His hands fell to his sides, making a loud pang! before they exited the scene. The music came to an abrupt stop. The silence from when he woke up started to slowly crawl back in -- the uninvited dinner guest who nobody liked. It must be back for afternoon brunch and tea. 

"Just admit it, Yuuta. You will never be a pianist. The stage is not for you."

Her voice the only sound in the auditorium beside a beating metronome marking a tempo called allegro. "Fast and bright."

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. 
120 beats per minute. 
How many more
to become a pianist? 

"I'm scared." He murmured, his voice cracking. His hands trembled. He held his hands against his ears and hugged his legs to his chest. He could hear his heartbeat now. He wondered which could beat faster -- a mechanical instrument or a life organ? Not sure. But a warm hug would feel mighty nice. "I can't play...I can't! I'll mess it up!" He started again. He could feel something wet like tears cascade down his cheeks. 

"I hate this! I can't keep a steady, strict rhythm or hit every note with just the right frequency at just the perfect pitch. It's like I'm being molded into a box! Chopin is trying to turn me into a machine!"

The boy yelled. Tick. Tick. Tick. Still moving at 120 beats per minute. He locked eyes with the metronome. "Go to hell!" He screamed, gripping the metronome and launching it towards the floor. The metal rod snapped off and slid across the floor. All ticking ceased. His glance fell back to the keys on his piano. All black and white but no gray. 

"Why? What is it that I can't do right? What am I missing?" His voice was hushed now. 
"Silly! It's no fun having everything figured out. Getting lost is the whole point!" 

Lost? What could that even mean? 

Reproduction after reproduction sounded in Munin’s mind. A thousand versions played a thousand times for a thousand hours, and Munin simply sat there. All of them diverged in so many minute ways, how to find the correct? All of them were different, all of them danced around the reality of the song; but none could touch it.

Fingers tapped on keys, sounds echoing in this realm. Slightly faster here, slightly slower here. The crescendo began, the crescendo ceased and the song quieted: diminuendo. Up and down the volume played, loud and soft, the pace ever moving on and on, driven on by the click click click that played within the metronome. It slowed and sped, as Munin clicked and clicked and clicked and clicked, black keys, white keys, each of them pressed in imperfect time: though who could find perfection in this strange world of unknowledge?

A metronome sounded in Munin’s mind, ticking away with one hundred twenty clicks a minute. A useless device, unable to bring the unfixed song into focus. A useful device, one of the two sources of order, the second source of permanency. The rhythm of the keys, the only thing that was dictated. The order of the presses were the only other fixed notion. It was enough to preserve the order of what should be the song, but not enough to dictate its existence.

What was the point of unknown things? What was the point of this noise? What was the point of the click and clack of keys that did not even capture what it really was?

The machine pressed upon the keys, and it could not find the song. Chopin was far from a machine, far from a tyrant. He was too unregimented, too much left unknown. No one could find him in the song, no one could discover his true intentions. All that could be created was an interpreted mess, all held together by the ink of the page, the sticky web that held the name of Chopin’s Etude Op. 10.

And Munin could not see it.

No one could see it. It was an arena, not a box. The combat of the stage, the interpretation that was liked best was the Etude. All others were just representations of that mistaken thing.

Every one was representations.

But maybe one of those could aid?
Perhaps one of those could reveal something?
How an Etude could be pulled out of these inky stains?
Black on white, dictating what it was in all its iterations.

Munin stood, and reached to seek out events. Perhaps someone could give Munin a look at the production of the song, how the musicians interpreted this imperfect dictate.

It stood and walked: seeking the interpreter who could speak of the song, and say what it truly was.

"Look! You put one hand here and you watch it dance! Then the other follows...see! Hehe, he's inspired!"

The hazy memory of a girl with long hair flooded Yuuta's thoughts. His legs still hugged to his chest, the boy stared up at a light fixture above. Its incandescent glow flickered at an unsteady rate. His mind began to picture a living-room baby grand piano -- no doubt a gift from Grandpa, a brilliant craftsman -- with two children curled up by its mighty keys. One chased stars and the other struggled to even hold his balance on ground. The boy seemed fixated on the music sheets, flipping through each page to ensure he had memorized every note at just the right tempo. The girl seemed offended by the effort. Yuuta could hear her voice ringing out in a fiery rage:

"No! No score! Are you a robot or something? Only the heart can play the piano!"

He knew the boy must have felt defeated. Yuuta could already imagine the boy's head bowed towards the floor, buried behind his hands. It's hard living in the shadow of a superstar. It's even harder realizing that you can't play the lullaby Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Only page five of his beginner music theory text, Down-to-Earth with Piano! The girl's advice seemed surreal. Make-believe even. If you can't even remember the basics, then how could you put your heart in it? How can one hand dance when the other struggled to keep up with the support? The boy couldn't even maintain a steady beat without losing focus on the main melody. How would you keep up with the rhythm? Crescendo here or too soon? What about tempo markings? How would you play this -- lively allegro or slow-and-steady adagio?

Yuuta felt overwhelmed. Feelings of incompetence and loss splintered down his spine. Yuuta was that boy. Chloe was his antagonist, that distant figure drifting far away towards cloud Nine. Why did he keep reaching? In that living room, it seemed like the world revolved around those gifted with talent. And talent, it seemed, was a god-given gift. If not even a fraction of that could rub off on him, then what was the point? Yuuta's gaze fell back on the Chopin score. Music scores were for normal people. People like him. Earthbound species. Mother might be right. The stage is reserved only for those who can touch the sky and dance with the stars above -- pianists who played "with their hearts." Not for amateur readers of that Down-to-Earth music theory textbook. And certainly not Yuuta, either.

"Enough!" Yuuta thrust himself off his stool. He felt dizzy and uneasy, glancing at the sheets of music that lay scattered across the stage floor. The piano-world seemed like too much to handle at that moment. He retreated to a seat in the eighth row of the audience, somewhere far away where he belonged. No longer a driver, but a passenger that could cause no harm. And yet somewhere he could still clearly see the piano. Yuuta leaned on his seat's armrest. Underneath the light fixture's irregularly-paced glow, the musical instrument rested as if caught in a deep slumber. Its glint mocked him, reminding him of his lousy performance. In another way, it seemed like it wanted to lure him back in -- just come and try again. What would it take to wake up the sleeping beauty?

He thought he could hear Chloe's voice again:

"Mom thinks that talent is stupid. She thinks if you try hard, you'll have a shot. You might not land on the moon, might not even get to outer space...but you'll have one hell of a time. And that matters...right?"

Munin walked through a city of song.

Hands worked metal, ivory, wood, skin; all forms of earthly good. Hands twisted, clapped, danced, clicked: sound and silence taken and woven into tapestries. Each set of hands were followed by countless mouths: each speaking according to their mind. Some praised, some appreciated, others followed silently, waiting for the hands to work their strange magic again.

Feet danced along the tapestry, others stumbled along. Hands took anothers tapestry and twisted it, changing elements and passing it off as their own.

It was a city of sound and silence, of string and skin, all carried on air.

Here and there holy tapestries were hung, sanctified by the words of the mouths, and held aloft by the hands. Lavish displays were set around these miracles; and many came to see them. It is one of these that summons Munin: the beauty to be examined and understood.

But alas, the original set of hands has passed! and so he is placed in this holy place, covered in his tapestries. “But, can I not witness how it was?” Munin asks, to which the living ones cry “Nay, but we can show you what we believe!” And so they approach their ivory, and they each weave a new wonder, all beautiful in their own right.

“While each were lovely,” Munin says calmly, “none of them were his tapestry!”
“Of course!”

---

Such is the tale of frustration that leads Munin to a relatively small recital hall. It doesn’t expect much: no, that isn’t the right expression. It doesn’t expect Chopin’s Etude: for that is an impossibility. None can create the Etude, none can craft it. There is no such thing: merely a collection of things that are all mimicries of that wonderful tapestry.

All are: and all are not.

Instead of song and dance, Yuuta waded through silence. His mind drove to a halt. "Talent...stupid?" He thought. "How haven't we switched places then? Why am I not the superstar?" Yuuta clenched his fist. Forty-four hundred hours and counting had been drained into taming the piano. Even more spent in bed memorizing page after page of Chopin sheet music. All so that he could remember some witty phrase meant to cheer him up and encourage movement forward. If all it took was effort, then why was Yuuta still glaring at a piano from far-away rather than dancing closely with it in harmony? If experience was the price, then why did his music sound choppy, forced, and terribly cacophonous? Just what part of the formula was he missing?

A part of Yuuta wished he had punched her for saying that.

Perhaps those questions just did not matter. "I'll have one hell of a time, huh?" Fragments of Chloe's motivation spiel continued to turn over in his mind. If choppy music is the end-result of forty-four hours of studying, then that must be the best Yuuta can do. It didn't matter if the meter was off or if he recklessly rushed past certain sections, the music he created was his own crafting. All he had done -- hugging feet-to-chest in search for warmth, lobbing metronomes in acts of frustration, and dashing far-far away from home  -- had led up to this moment. This was the abandoned recital hall he found. This was the stage Yuuta wanted to call his own. No superstar could fill those shoes but him.

Eight rows down somewhere, a light-bulb lit up. The amateur pianist jumped out of his seat and dashed down the aisle back to the stage. Scattered sheet music coupled with a dusty grand piano that towered above greeted him. The metronome he broke earlier hung close to one of the piano's legs, as if seeking solace. The light fixture's irregularly-paced glow didn't help lighten the mood to this "welcome-back" party. The stage seemed daunting. The cracks in the floorboards, the rats that sometimes emerged from them, and the lack of a heater signaled a rundown edifice with a serious health hazard. Refurbishing: critical. And yet, Yuuta couldn't feel more at home; this place, after all, is where music began.

Yuuta smiled at the scene. Tripping on his shoe lace on the way up, he clumsily made his way to the stage and faced the auditorium. He imagined a large crowd, sold-out seats in every section. Full press coverage of the performance -- live-broadcasting to every home in the Rukongai. Cheers, whistles, and standing ovations to celebrate the musician's entrance. The thought of a large venue began to upset him. Was that who he was performing for? He imagined Chloe somewhere in the first row, her feet dangling freely off her seat.  

The amateur pianist clutched his pants and took a deep bow.

"Thank you for attending!" He announced, his voice rushed and filled with unease. After all, pianists were not orators; they did not speak with words, only with song and melody.  

Yuuta shifted his attention to the piano. Carefully, he inched closer and closer, marching towards it even. He adjusted his "Hello world!" shirt for wrinkles, admired the Rubix cube waving towards Earth, and finally took a seat on his stool. Sheet music ahead, foot pedals below, light fixture above. Keys just barely under his nose.

Welcome home.

One two three four, one two three four.

Munin wandered towards the dilapidated recital hall, the fourth of six locations that it had found in a small search of the Rukonagi. The outside walls gave little indication as to what lay within, nothing but a small sign laid by the door. A small icon of a piano was the only indication of the building’s purpose, and Munin considered leaving it behind for a moment. It was already getting a little late, and Kionchi might require a bit of food soon. Not that the Shinigami couldn’t make it himself, but the gesture was always good. Still…

Munin stopped at the wooden door, glancing within to view the broken-down interior. The seats were in need of repair, as was the floor. Nothing of particular value was here: just another building that had lost its purpose. Who knew if the piano was even here? Perhaps it had been taken by a band from the Rukonagi?

No matter. The android turned away from the doorway, hand retracting from the portal to return to its side. A small pause to make a final evaluation and…

“Thank you for attending!”

A voice? Air blurred by Munin’s face as it whirled back to the door. It hadn’t detected anyone within the building. Diagnostics began to run as a hand extended to the door, then paused as the android considered. If this individual wasn’t detected, then either it was little threat, or merely a curiosity. But then… what would bring a being here?

Perhaps the same reason that Munin came?

The door was gently pushed aside, quiet as the patters of the mouse that dashed out of the building. Sensors confirmed the desolate stage, the broken auditorium; and saw the one who sat by the piano. It wasn’t a nice piano. Scratches marred its surface, and the flickering light made sure to highlight the disastrous state it was in. Yet: it would suffice to play, despite the broken metronome that sat beside its leg.

The male being sat at the piano, a figure of focus as it stared down towards the keys. Feet hovered above pedals, eyes glanced at the inked song, painted in a flickering light. Munin couldn’t help but pause at the image, capturing the man in its memory: fixing it in time.

What would he do?
What would he play?

These questions were at the forefront of the android’s mind as it hid itself within the auditorium, waiting to hear what the pianist would do.

It would be the audience: the listener for this performance.
What would it be?

Silence. 



Yuuta's mind was anything but. Must-do's, must-not's, and what-if's whirled through his mind as he prepared to perform: how high should his seat be, were his hands arched like a bridge, what if his shirt-sleeve got in the way? Playing the music did not seem like a priority as the amateur pianist fidgeted again and again on his seat, itching with preparation protocol. Sweat rolled down the boy's forehead as he assumed posture -- his hands frozen like metal, not fluid like dance partners eager to mingle. The train-wreck of his pre-performance routine did not signal a strong start. All roads pointed toward a zero-sum gain. All black and white still, but no gray. What was missing? His mother's voice began to join his thoughts:



"Is this how you want to play? Your feet barely touch the pedals!"

"Admit defeat. Rest awhile. Find something else. The stage is not yours to stand on." 



A mighty pang! sounded on the keys. The music began. Chopin Etude Op. 10 No. 3. Or, at least, in name. In sound, this was a child's retribution -- a temper-tantrum in G minor. The pianist slammed the keys one after another, creating hurried sounds that collided into each other and competed like rivals for the loudest pitch. At first, the dissonant noise he created gave the impression of a monster -- Frankenstein maybe -- storming down a flight of stairs to greet his victim. Welcome to doom.

Yuuta raced down the highly-pitched keys. Just as quickly, the scene changed. Haunted mansion gave way to icy cold wasteland. Barren, just like the recital hall. No one in sight, just the continual downfall of snow -- relentless with too much white. No gray. Not even black for contrast. Walking in a winter wonderland? Nah. Just winter. The kind where cold splinters down your spine, lodges itself inside each vertebrae, and kicks out whatever warmth may have been an occupant. 


The music slowed. The score called for the music to speed up. Music to grow louder. Crescendo! Crescendo! But, the life-force in the amateur pianist's grand overture only seemed to steal away and left a quiet and hushed melody that refused to reveal. What began as a child screaming "No! No! No!" transformed into a whispering mouse pleading sorry for sneaking into the kitchen. The amateur barely pressed the keys now, scared of causing a ruckus. The scene changed too. The wasteland with no one in sight revealed a lake frozen over for the season. Couples with ice-skates glided on hand-in-hand with ease. Giggles and screams sometimes erupted. Someone not too far off stood by himself, watching. Couples held hands to maintain warmth; he rubbed his mittens furiously together. The observer admired the ice-skaters; but he was not one of them. They had each other. He had cheap fabric. 

What was Yuuta creating? Where would the melody go from here? The soundscapes he instilled, the images he conjured, the world he created -- this was not Chopin. This was not what the score intended. Where the score went up, Yuuta went down. Where it wanted loud, Yuuta wanted soft. What should have roared with fortissimo whimpered softly in pianissimo. If the score called for white, Yuuta remedied with black. Was this how to play an etude? If so, there need not be a score. Improvisation: key to success! 

Or is this what you color gray? 

It began.

A slam on the keyboard summoned the notes, the melodic dance unrhythmic. It shuddered at the force of the player’s will, the controlled pace of most music removed in favour of the noise. Fingers jammed at keys, each played at a lilting pace that desired nothing more than a cacophony of a monstrous melody. Nowhere was the order: gone in the face of what might have once been an extant melody.

But no longer was it that: no longer was it a previous melody. The notes were too loud, the notes played arrhythmically, and nothing save for their progression was reminiscent of the sheets of paper that the boy paid no mind. The music descended into a frozen unknown, half-dead and buried as he continued playing this mockery of Chopin. Not how it should have been: but what it would be.

The artisan’s hands slowed, gently continuing on in this now cold melody. Gone was the heat and anger of his beginning, now there was only a soft quietness as he played a true melody. Slow and steady, each note in isolation from the others as they followed after each other. The chords played together, while singular notes snuck between them, almost invisible as they caught the android’s notice.

It was a strange song: not one heard before. No: this was a new tapestry, and Munin was here to witness its weaving. The noise, the anger; the quiet, the sorrow. All the strings were pulled together, hammered softly and violently, all composing this beauty that Munin simply listened to. Not Chopin: though it used the same colour of thread. Could it be an etude? Perhaps it was, but that seemed unimportant.

It was a tapestry formed of a new weaver, a half-grown spider who drew the attention to his paltry stage. And so Munin listened, and waited for him to conclude his melody, to place the tassels upon this creation.

And it would live forevermore.

One two three four. One two three four...

Sweat rolls down the musician's forehead. His feet press against the pedals, his hands glide across the keys, great strides made between pitches of high and low. He didn't pay much mind to the score now. His gaze focused on what lived beyond it. For him, a dangling light fixture ready to give out. There is no need to consult with the formula sheet anymore; Yuuta went loose cannon. And yet, movement. Strength exuded in the notes he pressed, rhythm in the melodies he invented, and chutzpah! in all he produced: fast, slow, high, low. Everything in between. Bold with every step.

Listen! The musician came to play his song.

This isn't Chopin. How could it be? The set piece on the stand is Etude Op. 10 No. 3, not Frenzy in Winter Wonderland. How could he possibly sit behind a piano and call himself a musician? Music is not a dance in improvisation; it is a matter of technique that need be refined over and over again. Day after day, hour by hour. Always fine-tuning your performance to match the score. The musician's gaze falls back to the score. He reads the title inked in black. A shiver darts through his spine, a painful reminder of what he should have been playing. He imagines his mother sitting on a stool by his piano. He couldn't see much of her, but her legs are crossed and a heavy stick rests in her lap.

"Come, darling. Let's play Chopin," he hears her say. 



The musician slams a few keys in response. In turn, the melody grows louder. Notes clump together, others play when they shouldn't. The boy keeps going. It almost feels like he wants to retort "No! I want to play!" This train would not derail. 



"You're going to ruin the music, aren't you?" Her voice intrudes. 



The music slows. Loud crescendos give way to soft, hushed whispers -- the roaring lion turns out to be a costume for the squeaky mouse. All drive in the melody evaporates. The musician hardly presses any notes now, a hand retreating back to his seat. His head bows toward the keys and his back hunches. His other hand joins the escape. 



One two three four...one two three four...one two... 

The boy grins. "Listen to me!" He roars as he sounds another key. No hint of temper, nor was it too scared to engage. This time just what the score intended. His eyes lock horns with the score, hungry for battle. Enchanted, his other hand returns to the scene as the two begin a slow waltz. Or, maybe an intimate tango. One dances down the keys while the other hangs close and carries the melody. Sometimes they meet together and during others they taunt each other in invitation -- a secret party for two.  

"You see...they're dancing!" Chloe's voice pierces the musician's thoughts. 

Yuuta smiles in response, his gaze shifting back to the light fixture. His music didn't waver far from the score now. Bright. Stately. Full of life. Like a king ready to deliver a state of the union. He had the whole thing memorized after all. And yet, the swing and gusto of his frenzy earlier could still be felt. A fierce fusion of Yuuta and Chopin had been created -- Yuuta's Chopin. 

The scene changes too. A long winter had finally given way to spring. Trees bloom with vibrant green as daffodils and lilies wake up from deep slumber. Instead of couples skating on ice, ducklings follow their mother as they leisurely float on water. Somewhere nearby a warm house shelters a grand piano inside. Two children sit beside it while a mother plays a Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star lullaby. "I bet I can play that!" One of them shouts, while the other giggles.

"Sing along now!" The mother commands as the three sing "Twinkle twinkle little star... how I wonder what you are..."

Loneliness had no place here. This is home. A place for warm weather, ice-cream sandwiches, and lots of love. Is this what Chopin intended? This must be the color gray. 

The musician stands up. The song had finished. The etude had run its course. He faced the audience and took a bow. A cheery smile lightens the stage, his face all flushed red from exhaustion.  

"Thank you for listening!"

He abruptly announces to his audience of zero. His voice tense, as usual. He wondered who had been in attendance. Did Chloe sneak in, maybe? A villager perhaps? If he was lucky, maybe a shinigami or two? The boy skillfully played the song his mother always said he couldn't. Surely, that much he earned. He exclaimed again: 

"Do you think she heard it? Did my music...reach her?" 

Yuuta collides against the floor. Passed out and head-on. Turns out hydration is an important concept. He'd come to sooner or later. Though, it would be mighty nice if someone got him a glass of water. But who would save him? There's a reason abandoned recital halls are abandoned.

Even so, maybe someone heard it. Wouldn't that be lovely? 

// 17 GP

// 74 total