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Prologue
I began to write this story to journey into the depths of the sea, to travel into the past.
I arrived at the port of Soma City, Fukushima Prefecture.
The moment I stepped out of the car, the scent of the sea greeted me. From near and far, the wind carried the sound of countless overlapping waves. A seagull cried sadly, a solitary white speck against the overcast sky. A cold March wind that bore the remnants of winter swept through the desolate port. It still carried lingering traces of the disaster.
My childhood friend Shimizu waited in the small vessel floating on the water. Even from a distance, his towering figure was unmistakable, making the boat seem oddly small. He had gained even more bulk than before, looking like a giant bear that had wandered into the port. As I approached, he noticed me and broke into a grin. His smile reminded me of Ebisu, one of the Seven Gods of Fortune. Despite his size, he had a gentle and friendly face.
Yakki!
He hoisted himself from the boat onto the dock and ran toward me, then swept me into a powerful hug. It was like a scene on the news: Local Man Attacked by Bear. Shimizu has always been physically affectionate. But for me, his over-the-top yet warm display of affection felt just right, and it made me happy.
It's been a long time, Shimizu.
I hugged him back with all my might, patting his pleasantly plump side.
Finally releasing his hold, Shimizu's eyes turned distant as he spoke.
It's been four years, hasn't it?
Yeah, four years already . . .
As I thought about just how much time had passed, tears welled up in my eyes.
Shimizu took a seat in the covered cockpit of the small boat. I sat behind him, using a hard case of luggage as a makeshift chair. I held a box of fragile items tightly. The engine roared to life and the boat began to move. It cut through the sea, leaving a white spray on the dull ocean, which shone with a metallic light. The outline of the port receded into the distance, replaced by the grand silhouette of the Abukuma Highlands, emerging like black waves.
After about forty minutes the boat came to a stop. There was nothing around us but the vast, desolate ocean extending in all directions. We checked our latitude and longitude on a GPS app.
37°49'99" latitude, 141°9'41" longitude.
It perfectly matched the location we had been given by Fukushima Fisheries Cooperative.
We started preparing to dive. We put on our wetsuits, masks, flippers, and strapped on our tanks. I had just received my Advanced Open Water Diver certification in Okinawa solely for this trip. Shimizu, who was more experienced, checked my equipment for me.
With a burst of energy, Shimizu dove into the sea. It reminded me of our swimming classes. Ever since we were kids, Shimizu was always the first one to jump in, bold as a lion. On the other hand, I was as cautious as a timid serpent, and slowly dipped my toes in the water. The water was warmer than I expected, but my thin frame started shivering almost instantly. Seeing this, Shimizu swam over, looking concerned.
Yakki, you okay? Your lips are turning purple already.
Huh, already?
I felt embarrassingly weak.
I'm fine. I think.
Are you sure?
I could see Shimizu's questioning expression.
Okay then, let’s go. I'll dive first, you follow me.
Shimizu bit down on his regulator and gracefully dove down. I awkwardly followed after him.
We entered into a deep, blue world.
The sound of the waves grew distant, muted by the water's surface, while the sound of my breathing and the bubbles escaping from my mouth amplified.
Following Shimizu, who had already descended about five meters, I left the dimly lit sea surface behind. When I made it to one meter, I cleared my ears for the third time—the first time was when I entered the water, the second right after I dove.
With the overcast skies, visibility was poor and I couldn't see any fish. Shimizu, diving deeper and deeper, looked like a solitary, enormous grouper. Worried about losing sight of him, I cautiously trailed the shimmering bubbles that rose in a wavering stream, like Hansel and Gretel following moonlit pebbles.
The deeper we went, the more intense the blue of our surroundings became.
In the dim silence, debris floated down like snow falling upwards.
They looked like salt crystals.
Salt was just a seasoning for most people. Small, white grains tucked away in tiny jars, turning bland salads flavorful and punching up the sweetness of watermelon. An indispensable part of life.
But for me, salt held a deeper significance. It represented death, time, and life.
I’ve led a turbulent life, and salt and I have a unique relationship.
The deeper I delved, the more vividly the past returned to me. My mind journeyed back fifteen years, to when I was in third grade. Music seemed to float in the sea.
The beautiful sound of a piano . . .
It was Frederic Chopin's Etude Opus 10 No.3, The Farewell Song.
This is a story that begins and ends with tears.
１
Your mother is suffering from Chloride Disease.
The doctor seated on the stool delivered the news. His age was hard to tell from his youthful eyes, at once making him look like he was in his late thirties and early twenties. Behind his square black-rimmed glasses, those round eyes held a hint of worry beneath thick eyebrows.
It's a disease where the body slowly transforms into sodium chloride, starting from the extremities.
Struggling to comprehend his words, I looked up at the nurse standing behind the doctor. She bent down to my eye level and explained.
The body gradually turns into salt and crumbles away, starting from the fingertips and toes.
The pretty, lightly made-up nurse demonstrated. She mimicked severing her left hand with her right, like a knife, starting from her fingertips. Her right hand eventually stopped over her heart.
I stared blankly at her hand in front me. When my mind finally registered the situation, I asked.
Is my . . . mother going to die?
The doctor's face turned even more troubled. His lower lip stuck out, somewhat like a fish.
His silence was affirmation. Unable to accept the reality, I inquired again.
Her whole body is turning into salt? Why . . . how can that . . . ?
The doctor, still with a troubled expression, repeatedly rubbed his lower lip with the middle finger as he spoke.
The human body is primarily composed of hydrogen, oxygen, carbon, nitrogen, phosphorus, and sulfur. According to one theory, well, the atoms . . . for some reason become sodium chloride.
Nobody knows for sure. It's a rare disease, with only a few cases worldwide. There are many diseases whose causes remain unknown.
So, she won’t get better . . . ?
A silence descended. The doctor didn't even blink, now like a fish feigning sleep.
I returned to my mother's hospital room on the first floor.
My mother gazed out the west-facing window. A dogwood tree in full bloom perfectly framed by the window. A breeze rustled the white flowers and gently drifted through the window. The warm three o'clock sun cast a soft hue on my mother's pale hair.
My mother turned around upon noticing me. Her expression was one of a child fearing a reprimand. I took a seat on the stool next to her bed, my fists balled up on my lap.
Why didn't you tell me sooner?
My voice sounded angry. I realized I was angry. The news had come so abruptly that I was too stunned to understand my own feelings.
. . . I'm sorry.
With just those two words, my mother apologized.
I knew she had tried to shield me from as much pain as possible. She was gentle and compassionate. She would rather feed me something tasty than eat it herself. She would rather vanish than cause anyone pain . . . that was the kind of person she was. She was so kind it was almost cruel.
Show me your arm.
My mother rolled up the sleeve of her hospital gown, and I gasped.
She was missing her arm from the elbow down. The end of her arm was covered with what looked like clustered crystals. I felt something gritty on my fingers as they rested on the bed. I looked more closely to see white granules on my fingertips.
Salt crystals . . .
The devastating truth dawned on me that my mother was turning into salt and would eventually fade away. She would become the gritty substance scattered on the bed. The wind that rustled the dogwood blossoms would whisk her away.
I broke down in tears, clinging to my mom's stomach as I cried.
It hurts, doesn't? Mom, you must be in pain . . .
I heard her crying, too. Cold teardrops fell onto the back of my neck.
It doesn't hurt . . . It doesn't hurt at all . . .
Even as she said this, her body clenched up in a horrible way.
She tried to hug me back, but her hands couldn't quite reach.
２
I was a student at Sakuranoshita Elementary, a public school in Koriyama City, Fukushima Prefecture.
Cherry trees surrounded the schoolyard, their vibrant blossoms attracting local viewers every spring.
After school, when everyone had left and the schoolyard fell silent, I would walk alone. I took several laps around the schoolyard under the cherry blossoms that set the blue sky aflame with their petals. Neither the color of the blossoms nor the song of the bush warbler could capture my preoccupied attention. Only the contrast between sunlight and shadow, the slight difference in their scents, seemed to faintly stir my memories.
I had lost track of the number of laps I had taken by the time I noticed the music.
I heard the sound of a piano.
The performance might have just begun, or perhaps I had only just become aware of the melody. Against the backdrop of the clear blue sky, the school building gleamed white. I found myself gazing up at the music room's window on the third floor as cherry blossom petals danced in the wind.
The performance was beautiful.
For the first time in my life, I truly appreciated the beauty of music. It felt as though the mud clouding my senses had been washed away and I could truly feel the world around me.
The rustling of the vibrant cherry blossoms, the poignant sensation of the blue sky absorbing the sound of the piano, the rhythm of the falling petals . . . It was as if the piano's timbre had drawn out something hidden within these elements and made them resonate.
I stood there for a while, spellbound.
Eventually, I found myself heading toward the music room. I made my way to the entrance, changed into my indoor shoes, and went up the sun-warmed stairs. Oddly, there wasn't anyone around. It was as if the usually bustling sea had suddenly become deserted.
I walked down the dimly lit hallway and stopped in front of the music room. A thick, black curtain covered the small window in the sliding door.
I reached for the door but hesitated. I hadn't been invited. Still, I was desperate to know who was playing. I quietly pushed the door open, careful not to make a sound.
A grand piano stood on the left, and the player was hidden in the shadows. Only slender legs pressing the pedals stuck out beneath the piano. I cautiously approached. The piece was reaching its climax and it carried a slightly unsettling aura.
As the melody softened again, the performer came into view.
I was instantly mesmerized.
A beautiful young girl was playing.
Her long lashes lowered dreamily over her eyes, which were framed beneath her neatly trimmed bangs. The breeze carrying the scent of cherry blossoms gently stirred her glossy black hair. Soft light streamed in through the window, highlighting her fair skin and leaving only her cherry blossom-colored lips, like a petite pearl, in the shadows. A vibrant sky-blue dress hung on her slender figure as if a piece of the spring sky had deigned to float down over her.
The performance ended as though the wind itself had stopped blowing.
The sunlit hour ticked by. Once again, the song of the bush warbler echoed in the distance.
Startled, the girl opened her eyes and looked at me. Her large almond-shaped eyes were striking, as if two flames had been ignited or two flowers had bloomed.
Time seemed to freeze. I'm not sure how long we remained locked in that gaze.
That was incredible.
Snapping back to reality, I managed to find the words.
. . . Thank you.
The girl seemed a bit taken aback, then she smiled. I returned her smile. She leaned slightly forward in her chair and spoke.
I was watching you. You seemed a bit odd.
You think I'm weird?
You were circling the schoolyard, weren't you?
I offered a wry smile. Feeling a flush creep up my cheeks, I tried to explain.
I was just lost.
You must have a terrible sense of direction.
The girl chuckled. When she laughed, her large eyes narrowed and her cute under-eye bags puffed up. She leaned forward with new interest.
Hey, what were you really up to? You were stashing something in your pocket, weren't you?
As her eyes sparkled with curiosity, I resigned myself to tell her the truth.
Okay, I admit . . . there’s a reason I do this. So please, don't laugh.
I won't laugh, I promise.
With a mischievous smile, she extended both hands cupped as if she were about to scoop water. I sighed, stepped forward, and poured the contents of my pocket into her palms.
Cherry blossom petals fluttered onto her palms as white as snow.
She looked confused, her gaze meeting mine.
３
To fully explain things, we'd have to go back to when I was just three years old.
It was then that my young, delicate sensibility was twisted, never to return to its original form. Like heated glass that cooled and solidified in an odd shape.
I blame my father, Ryunosuke Saegusa.
My father was a novelist, renowned for his quirky writing style and eccentric storylines that stemmed from his own unique sensibility. He wrote under his own name, not worried that anyone would compare him with the great Ryunosuke Akutagawa. On top of that, he named me after another writer, Yakumo Koizumi. That should tell you something about how arrogant he was.
One evening as we were strolling along the Abukuma River, my three-year-old self asked.
Dad, why do you only have one eye?
My father, stroking his stubble, chuckled mysteriously before replying.
I gouged it out myself because it was bothering me. Just like that.
. . . What happened to it?
I ate it.
I stood there, petrified, then yelled out.
That's not true!
My father, turning to face me, walked over and brought his face down to my level.
It's the truth, kiddo.
With that, he nonchalantly lifted his black eye patch.
A small, dark void gaped back.
The deep red sunset, resembling blood, didn't light up that hole at all. It seemed as if the murmurs of the Abukuma River, the light dancing on its surface, were all consumed by that darkness, never to reappear.
That was probably the moment my malleable sensibility got twisted.
I experienced this peculiar pain, this sensation coming from the hollow darkness where his eye used to be.
The absence of his right eye was painful.
It wasn't the pain of a wound, but the fact that something that should be there was missing. In other words, the void caused me pain. Just like when the tail of my Godzilla figurine broke off, I felt a pain in the void of the lost tail and found myself crying.
A few months later, I fell down the stairs of our condominium.
I curled up for a while on the landing between the first and second floors. Eventually I mustered the strength to stand, gritting my teeth against the pain. I made it to our place on the third floor and looked in the bathroom mirror. A deep cut ran across my left temple, the blood flowing freely. When I wiped the blood away I could see the bone underneath.
But, I remained calm. I pinched the edges of the wound together, aligning them perfectly. I’d proved myself right.
I wasn't missing a piece of myself.
The edges of the wound fit together perfectly, no void in sight.
To me, this didn't feel like genuine pain.
After applying several bandages to stop the bleeding, I sighed in relief and turned on the television to watch some cartoons. My temple throbbed with pain, but it felt like someone else’s pain, distant and detached.
When my mom finally came home, she let out a scream. She saw the injury on my temple and broke down in tears. I couldn't understand why she was crying. All I knew was that it made me sad too, and so I cried with her.
This pattern of my mom crying and me feeling baffled was a reversal of what happened when she was diagnosed with Chloride Disease.
It was in the absence left by my mother's lost limbs that I experienced the sharpest pain.
It must hurt. Mom, it has to hurt . . .
And without comprehending my pain, my mother simply cried, saddened by seeing me in tears.
It doesn't hurt . . . It doesn't hurt . . .
She repeated these words, trying to comfort me with a hug, but she couldn't.
This unique, inexplicable phantom pain swept over me.
After all, this pain belonged to others, or to things that no longer existed. I had taken it into my heart, and I was at a loss about how to deal with the invisible injury that still throbbed. This special injury required a special kind of healing. Eventually, I found a way to soothe the pain.
It involved collecting something to fill the wound. Anything would do. It could be a tree branch, a beautiful stone, or a piece of glass.
The important thing was to pray.
To hope that the things I had gathered would adequately fill the wound that was the source of the pain. That they would effectively heal the pain.
That was my prayer.
Overwhelmed by the pain of my mother losing her limbs, I sought something to fill the emptiness. I wandered aimlessly around the classroom. Perhaps the large triangle ruler the teacher used for the blackboard? No, that was silly. It would make my mother look like a Gundam. Maybe a piece of chalk? Or a forgotten pencil case? Then my eyes fell upon the cherry blossoms in full bloom in the schoolyard.
The cherry blossoms were a breathtaking sight against the crisp spring sky. The wind made it look as though sparks were flying. My gaze, initially drawn upwards, slowly descended to my feet. The petals that had fallen in the shadow of the trees littered the ground like embers from a distant wildfire. When I hesitantly touched them, I found the petals to be surprisingly cold. However, holding them in my hand, the still, cold shapes slowly radiated warmth.
I thought the cherry blossoms might fill the void my mother left behind. It felt like they would become her new limbs, molded into shape by the wind, bringing warmth to the cold pain.
That's why I started gathering cherry blossoms. I wandered around the schoolyard, picking them up one by one, bit by bit.
Praying that they would heal my mother even slightly, I kept walking and collecting.
４
Seated near the piano, I stared at my clasped hands. As a naive kid, speaking about myself felt embarrassing.
Once I finished speaking, I finally looked up. The girl was looking down. For a split second, I thought I noticed something shimmer on her cheek. Was she crying?
Swiftly she wiped her face and met my gaze. Her eyes were slightly red, but I couldn't be sure if she had been crying.
You're . . . weird. It’s weird to feel pain in some void, but you see things in kind of an interesting way, too. Not every kid sees cherry blossoms as flames.
The word weird made my body flush. At my age, being different was something embarrassing. Seeing my reaction, the girl added hastily.
Oh, but I get it. If you wanted to portray a fiery, passionate flower—like a red rose, or a bougainvillea—you'd play them on the piano like a flame. Maybe your senses are sharper than other people? Like how I have perfect pitch.
You have perfect pitch?
I rose and approached the guitars lined up opposite the piano. Then I played an A. Single notes on the scale were all I knew how to play.
What’s that note?
The girl gave a smile.
A. It might be a bit closer to G sharp, though. Even with perfect pitch, the space around A is a little fuzzy for me. I always get pulled toward A.
That's incredible!
So, what did you think of my playing?
It was really amazing.
No, not just that. I mean like, what did you hear in your own words? Not just the clichés.
I paused for a moment, gazing into the captivating eyes of the girl. Then I spoke.
I felt no pain at all. Each note was so beautiful, and each one belonged exactly where it was. It was like it was meant to be . . . what's the word for that?
Destiny . . . ?
Yeah. It was like the sound of destiny.
Like the sound of destiny . . .
The girl echoed the words. Her face reflected mild surprise, as if she was examining something she had discovered in the dark, turning it over in her hand.
Suddenly, like a blossoming flower, she gave a smile.
My name is Yuzuki Igarashi. Yuzuki, as in swaying moon. What's your name?
I'm Yakumo Saegusa. It's written with the characters for eight clouds, but you pronounce it Yakumo. What was the name of the song you were just playing?
Tristesse by Frederic Chopin.
And so, that marked the first time Yuzuki and I met.
５
After promising to meet Yuzuki again the next day, I headed to Sato General Hospital where my mom was admitted. I arrived around five in the evening after a forty-minute bicycle ride. The setting sun painted the hospital's white walls in shades of orange. I parked my bike in the parking lot and walked through the automatic doors, the distinct smell of disinfectant stinging my nostrils. After checking in at the reception, I made my way to Room 108.
My hand froze as I reached for the door. I could hear voices from inside the room.
I slid the door open slightly and peered through the gap.
A shadow stood in the room, bathed in the evening light.
It was my father, Ryunosuke Saegusa. Ever since he divorced my mom when I was five, he had become nothing but a shadow to me. A tall, slender figure with a hunched back. An unreliable shadow . . .
Perhaps he seemed like a shadow because he constantly wore black. But the main reason was that his departure from the house didn't cause much pain. Despite his absence, all I felt was a slight discomfort. As such, I felt as if he'd been a shadow the whole time.
A vague shadow lacking a physical form.
The void in his right eye, which he revealed to me by the banks of the Abukuma River, was the only tangible aspect of him to me.
I hid in a corner until night fell and the shadow disappeared. I didn't want to see him. I had nothing to say to an incomprehensible shadow like him.
６
I was in a daze throughout class the next day.
Thoughts of my mother's illness filled me with unbearable sadness, while thoughts of Yuzuki, whom I was to meet after school, made my heart beat faster. Time was slowly taking my mother's life away, while at the same time drawing Yuzuki and me closer. There was no way I could focus on my studies, trapped between these conflicting feelings.
During break, I turned to Shimizu, who sat behind me.
Hey, do you know Yuzuki Igarashi from Class 3?
Shimizu looked surprised. I wondered if I had asked the wrong person. Always big and laid-back, Shimizu didn't seem like the type to be in the know, but he appeared genuinely surprised.
Yakki, you don't know about Yuzuki? Seriously?
It seemed like I was the one out of touch with the world. Yuzuki was quite a sensation. She had started playing the piano at the age of two, and by seven, she had won first place in the primary school division for first and second-graders of the Chopin International Piano Competition in Asia. The following year, she claimed first place in the Concerto A division of the same competition, the youngest ever to do so. She was a piano prodigy. There was no question that she was destined to become a world-class pianist. However, Shimizu, who couldn't even keep track of his own home run count, only knew one thing.
She won some fancy award.
That was the only thing he told me.
I felt both astonished and somewhat unsurprised at the same time. Yuzuki's performance was that impressive. Even to an amateur like me, it was clear how extraordinary she was.
The image of Yuzuki as a sheltered young girl living in a white, western-style house, playing the piano by an open window, occasionally coughing took shape in my mind. She was a frail yet refined maiden.
This foolishly stereotypical image was shattered during lunch break.
While I was playing dodgeball with Shimizu and the others in the schoolyard, Yuzuki appeared out of nowhere. Leading a group of girls from the Class 3, she boldly crossed the schoolyard, frowning and looking like she was about to start a fight.
I stood there, stunned, as the girls approached a group of boys from Class 3 who were playing soccer. Among them was Sakamoto, leader of the gang and known for his athletic prowess. He stood gawking, frozen in the midst of them.
Yuzuki stepped forward, addressing Sakamoto.
Leave Koyo alone!
Sakamoto's eyes widened as he glanced at Koyomi Kobayashi, a cute and petite girl hiding behind Yuzuki. Koyomi was clutching her skirt and looking down. Sakamoto's face hardened as he responded.
Why would I bully someone like her?
His voice was missing its usual vitality. Yuzuki spoke sternly.
You’ve got a crush on Koyo, don't you?
Sakamoto looked startled.
Wh-What?!
Koyomi's face flushed crimson, her mouth hanging open in surprise.
They had become the center of attention in the schoolyard. Sakamoto, in an obvious attempt at denial, yelled out.
. . . D-don't be silly. I don't like that ugly pig!
At his words, Koyomi's eyes filled with tears and she began to cry. Yuzuki's brows knitted in anger.
Hey! Apologize to Koyo!
Huh? Why should I . . . ? Owwwwwww!
Yuzuki had grabbed Sakamoto's nose and twisted it. Underestimating the grip of a pianist had been Sakamoto's mistake. Sakamoto yelped, grasping Yuzuki's right arm in an attempt to free himself. It almost looked as if Yuzuki could lift him off the ground with her fierceness.
You're pathetic for a boy!
At that moment, a teacher who had overheard the commotion approached. He defused the situation and led everyone away.
Yuzuki is scary . . .
Shimizu shivered slightly and murmured to himself.
This incident entirely shattered my image of Yuzuki as a demure young lady.
Prodigy pianist and amazon warrior—these were the new faces of Yuzuki's personality.
７
After school, I made my way to the music room at the time we agreed to meet.
The beautiful sound of the piano met my ears. It was a tone both powerful and delicate. It was odd to think that these were the same fingers that had twisted Sakamoto's nose.
Yuzuki didn't notice me come in. She was entirely engrossed in her performance.
I brought a chair, sat down, and just watched her play. With her eyes nearly closed and her ears straining, she filled each note with emotion. It was as if she was offering a prayer.
I applauded as the performance concluded and the last echo faded. The sound startled Yuzuki.
You should've said something if you were here!
I didn't want to disturb you.
Yuzuki blushed a soft cherry blossom pink and sighed. She looked so vulnerable that I couldn't tell whether the sheltered young lady or the fierce warrior was her true persona.
She abruptly closed the lid of the piano.
Shall we go?
Where to?
My house.
Despite not fully understanding her intention, I let Yuzuki lead me as my head tilted slightly in confusion. We had been walking for about three minutes after leaving the school when she finally broke the silence.
I had a bit of a fight today, so I can't focus when I'm at school.
I contemplated her words with a tilted head before responding.
It seemed more like you were beating someone up, and you seemed pretty focused back there.
Oh, you saw that?
Yuzuki's lips drew together in an embarrassed pout.
I can't stand people like him. He was such a nuisance, wasn't he?
Sometimes, I find all people are a bit too much.
Hearing this, Yuzuki cast a somewhat pained look my way.
What was that about . . . ?
It was a beautiful day in our suburban neighborhood of Sakuranoshita, a newly-developed area where many homes boasted lovely gardens. Violets, azaleas, lilacs . . . Spring flowers were in full bloom everywhere.
Suddenly, a dog barked loudly. Yuzuki grimaced and switched places with me. Glancing over, I saw a golden retriever tied up outside a dog house, barking at Yuzuki while its tail wagged wildly.
Does that dog have something against you?
No, it likes me so much that it gets too excited and pees all over me.
Yuzuki clung to me, using me as a shield, as she petted the dog's head.
The combination of Yuzuki's closeness and the fear of the dog potentially peeing on me gave me an unexpected surge of adrenaline.
８
Yuzuki's house towered over the neighboring homes, hidden from view by a tall fence and thick hedge.
Past the elegant double gates, a meticulously kept garden awaited. In one corner, figurines and a small house from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs was arranged as though the dwarfs were keeping the garden neat for Snow White. On the spacious terrace, designed like a botanical garden, budding white wisteria flowers hung like a blind, softening the setting sun.
We stepped inside the house. Natural light poured through the large windows.
Ornaments inspired by Grimm's Fairy Tales adorned the house. A rose from Beauty and the Beast, Cinderella's clock, and the basket Little Red Riding Hood would take to her grandmother's house were all on display.
The soundproof piano room was situated on the west side of the house. It was a spacious room, about 196 square feet and separated by large glass doors, bathed in warm sunlight that filtered through the expansive double windows.
Yuzuki slipped a CD of Maurizio Pollini into the player. Atop the speaker sat a small figurine of the Town Musicians of Bremen.
The strains of Chopin's Barcarolle filled the room. As the melody began to fade, Yuzuki turned to me and asked.
What did you think?
It was so beautiful it took me by surprise.
Yuzuki nodded in satisfaction at my response, then seated herself at the Steinway piano. Upon it sat an Anpanman stuffed toy, seemingly mismatched in its childish taste. She began to play Barcarolle.
Once more, I was mesmerized by Yuzuki's piano playing. Each note was flawless, resembling a particle of light. It reminded me of light particles dancing on Venetian waterways, which, before you knew it, formed the shapes of flowers and gently floated by. It was a delightful rendition of Barcarolle.
I tried to convey my impressions in my clumsy language.
Thanks.
Yuzuki thanked me but without much enthusiasm.
That's not what I meant. How does it compare to Pollini's performance?
Pollini was one of the world's greatest pianists, revered for his impeccable performances. His 1972 album, Chopin: 12 Etudes Op.10/Op.25?, was so highly regarded that it even came with the catchphrase, What more could one possibly ask for?
It was terrifying to want to be compared to such a master. Of course, at that moment, I didn't know anything about it and blurted out my honest opinion.
. . . It feels somewhat flat. Like there's a boat and the surface of the water, but nothing beneath it.
The thought was rather abstract and unclear, but Yuzuki seemed to be in agreement, nodding approvingly.
Right, it's too unambitious. I want it to have more maturity, more depth.
Um, maturity and depth . . .
That seemed difficult for a typical third grader.
To play Barcarolle well, I need more life experience. They say it's unplayable until you've had your heart broken three times. I wish heartbreak would hurry up and find me.
I couldn't help but chuckle lightly.
I might be kind of weird myself, but you're really one of a kind.
I'm serious, by the way.
That's when it happened. Suddenly, a woman in her early thirties appeared beyond the glass door. Because the room was soundproof, I hadn't heard any noise from outside.
Oh, my mom just got home . . .
I studied the woman again. She had round sunglasses, loose waves in her vibrant brown hair, and a yellow knitted jacket that matched her dark blue skirt. She was fashionable, and in retrospect, exuded a sort of Milan-like sophistication. Her name was Ranko Igarashi. I had heard from Shimizu that she was a professional pianist. When she removed her sunglasses, an astonishing beauty was revealed. She did bear a resemblance to Yuzuki. Her beauty was sharp, though, and somewhat edgy. She shot me a quick glance as if she found something annoying, then briskly walked into another room. I was left feeling baffled, wondering if I had somehow upset her.
I'm sorry . . .
Yuzuki apologized with a remorseful expression.
My mom is kind of difficult. She’s about to start my lesson, so we should say bye for now.
I nodded and put on my shoes at the entrance. As I was bidding Yuzuki farewell, I saw Ranko in the background.
Thank you for having me.
She responded with a curt nod.
Yes.
Then she waved dismissively as if she were shooing me away.
