POST-RESET :EMIKA’S SONG (MOV. 1)
Hey stranger, will my keying find you tonight?
—Emika
(August 3, 2015—Emika’s apartment in Tokyo)
Emika
THE BACK DOOR TO CONSTANTIN Hall slams open, and a white-champagne Shih Tzu drags his leash, along with the little girl holding it. The girl in the blue frock with puffed blue sleeves shouts, “Matte, matte, Harukusan.”1 She stops and looks up at me while tapping her chin. Then she crumples her brows and looks back at the door where she entered. She turns to me and mutters, “Mum?” The moment she notices you, her eyes brighten, and she springs to you, shouting, “Papha, Papha, Papha.”
The room changes. I am sitting by the Steinway overlooking a backyard with numerous cherry trees shedding gorgeous pink blossoms. There are blurry faces in the room, all staring at me. I rub my hands together, loop my red scarf around my neck, and smile at the same Shih Tzu pup and three blurry faces—you, that little girl, and a woman. I mumble, “So perfect.” I reach for the piano keys to play Chopin’s Ballade no. 1, op. 23.
(Emika’s apartment, Tokyo)
I jolt my head at the sound of the alarm—Debussy’s “Clair de Lune.” I yawn and stretch my arms. Every other time, my dream was monochrome. Every other time, he looped that scarf around my neck. And we played the piano together. Removing the blanket, I get up and rub my eyes. What’s so special about today that the dream changed? I press my temples to fol- low the oblique lines of the morning sun hitting the f loor, peppered with moving boxes. I deeply sigh and puff while rubbing my heavy eyes. It will be a laborious move to the US.
Markus tugs on my tank top and yawns. “Half an hour more, please . . .” Wrapping my arms around his neck, I smile. “Okay.”
(Dressing room at Constantin Hall, Tokyo)
I had known the notes by heart even before I took a single lesson or saw them in print. After today’s performance, I will become an official musi- cian with Egami Grammophon. I’ll start with Chopin’s Ballade no. 1, op. 23, followed by the Andante Spianato, op. 22, which I played in one of the rounds in the Chopin Competition. I was a little shy of nineteen when I won it in 2010. I followed in Chichi’s2 footsteps, but my keying sounds nothing like his. It is like someone else’s.
And that’s why my encore will be something I’ve never played in pub- lic. It’s a song that mixes Chopin’s Raindrop Prelude, Ballade no. 4, and Nocturne op. 9, no. 2. I dreamed of this piece when I was just nine. And I
2 Father’s.
woke up and reproduced the same sound without training or notes. Since then, I’ve been chasing that sound. I have collected every single record. But nothing sounds like what I dreamed. Nothing sounds like how I play it. If I play it in public . . . just maybe . . . I join my left-hand fingers and grab them with my right hand. Hey, stranger, will my keying find you tonight? Breathing hard, I cup my hands and blow into my cold, sweaty palms. Stretching my hand, I collect tissues from the table and wipe my forehead. My shaky hands reach for the unsolved Rubik’s Cube on the makeup table. Panting, I solve it. Next stop, a red origami paper. Shutting my eyes, I fold the paper. I open my eyes—a beautiful robin. I touch the robin and ask, “Hey, will you f ly and find this stranger for me?” I squint at a knock on the door. “Come in,” I say, quickly wiping my eyes.
Markus comes in, jerking his head to f lick his blond hair out of his eyes. Sitting on the table, he picks up my hand and kisses my ring finger and the engagement ring. His eyes glinting, he asks, “Ready?”
“No.” My voice quavers.
Jumping from the table, he looks into my eyes. “Really? Is there anyone even close to being your equal?” Crouching down, he kisses my forehead. I stand up and lower my eyes. “There’s this, but . . .” My voice trills.
A clearing of a throat grabs our attention. Looking at the door, we see a woman in a f loral dress, holding a makeup set, peeping into the room.
Bowing, she says, “Sumimasen. Yuki desu.”3 Pointing at her box, she hesitates. “May I apply makeup?”
I sit on the reclining chair. “Mochiron.”4 I shrug.
As Yuki lays out her brushes on the desk, we hear announcements from the main stage. “Do we want him here . . .” The audience cheers, even thumping their feet. All I can hear is they are cheering, “Insento, …Insento . . .” There’s something before “Insento” that I cannot make out. As the audience quiets down, Markus turns to Yuki, pointing his thumb at the door, “Wow! What’s going on?”
Lifting her brows, Yuki first mumbles in Japanese then looks up and translates. “Egami-san family is here.”
3 Excuse me, I am Yuki.
4 Of course.
I know. Akane-san is here to hand me the customary framed gold disk stamped with Emika Amari—A proud member of the Egami Galaxy. Chichi has one. But that doesn’t explain the cheering. A man’s voice f loats through the door. Squinting, I make out the f loating words. “….Let’s warm this bad boy.” A thunderous laughter and applause follow, almost shaking the furniture in the dressing room. As the crowd quiets down, piano notes gently f loat through the air. I shut my eyes. Someone is warming up the piano with Étude op. 10, no. 12, before I take over. A mere piano warmer will not attempt the Revolutionary Etude.5 My heart thumps out of my rib cage. I stretch my eyes wide and cover my mouth. Those strikes and pauses, I’ve known them since I was nine—they are mine. They are unique no matter what one plays. You are here? Was the audience cheering for you? My hands shake. Helplessly, I turn to Markus. My lips quiver as I point at the door to the dressing room. “It’s that sound.”
“What?” He squints
I lift my head and punch my left palm with my right knuckle. “The one that made me who I am.” Grabbing Yuki’s hand, I stand up. “I must find out who it is.”
Yuki bows. “Sumimansen. You mustn’t appear before your time.”
I stare into my sweaty, cold hands. My throat feels dry. “I know, but . . .” Markus helps me back to the chair. He gently holds my trembling hands. “Relax. I will find out who the piano warmer is.” He leaves after
blowing me a kiss. Yuki fans my face.
I’ve been searching for you all my life with nothing but the sound of deep, melodi- ous, time-bending, forceful notes. Why have I missed you all along, even though we never met? Why do I have flashes of an unlived life with you?6 While you remained an elusive dream, Markus came along. I stare at my engagement ring. Markus is real. I fold my fingers into a fist. I could bury that elusive dream in Markus’s deep-blue eyes. But when I shut my eyes, I see a little girl, a puppy, and you in a house with glass walls, with a backdrop of a breathtaking sakura bloom from fifteen cherry trees. Even in monochrome, the beauty is unmatched.
5 A more common name for Étude op. 10, no. 12.
6 In The Movement, Time Corrector Book 2, Emika told Tabi, “Though, I think a part of me would always look for Vince without knowing what or who I’m looking for. Even if I were content with my life.”
But your face is always hazy. After all these years, today, you are here. Is that why I saw colors in my dream today? Why did I dream of the little girl and the puppy rushing through Constantin Hall’s rear entrance today? Please don’t go. I promise I will play the best piano of my life tonight. I will delight everyone, but I will play only for you. Because that’s what I have always done. I blink, and tears leave my eyes and reach my chin. I look up at Yuki. “Gomennasai. Kore wa Hazukashī
.”7
Wiping my eyes with facial tissue, Yuki lifts her brows, worried.
Tapping the powder brush on the foundation, she assures. “Mondai janai.”8
Squinting, she stares at me and observes, “Hontoni kirei desu.”9
I bite my trembling lower lip and smile. “Arigatōgozaimasu."10
