The Forest of Wool and Steel

by Natsu Miyashita

  ‘What you see in the scenery is different from what I see,’ Mr Yanagi said. I agreed. There were so many things I needed to notice.

  ‘Any kind of knowledge is useful,’ he said.

  Was he trying to cheer me up?

  ‘Do you mean in the sense that it’s better to have plenty of topics to talk about, rather than just a few?’ I ventured.

  Mr Yanagi had a good reputation among the clients. Primarily, of course, because he was a skilled tuner, but being good at conversation was also important. He could follow any topic a client might bring up, and chime in intelligently. As for me, it seemed the best I could manage was to stand to one side and be awkward.

  ‘Oh, I’m not talking about the art of conversation or being cultured or anything like that. But I think it helps with the essence of tuning a piano.’

  The essence of tuning. I didn’t understand what that meant. I was a mere apprentice, hovering on the periphery.

  ‘Knowing specific names of things so you can picture the details is more important than you might think.’

  I must have looked lost because Mr Yanagi pondered a while before offering an example. ‘For instance,’ he began, and I braced myself. His examples could be quite obscure. ‘Do you like cheese?’ he asked.

  ‘I do.’ I knew he was heading for a complicated analogy but could find no other way to respond.

  ‘I like cheese too. Much like most people – or so I thought. A little while ago I sampled some award-winning hardcore cheese covered in mould and was blown away. This cheese was in a category all of its own, with a quite extraordinary flavour and a smell few people could tolerate. Still, a lot of people acknowledged how great it was, and it won a prize. There are those who love it and can’t get enough of it. The power of taste can be pretty profound.’

  I considered this as I walked along. Tuning and cheese. How on earth were the two connected?

  ‘You see, Tomura, if a client asked you to tune their piano so it was like cheese, what would you do?’

  I stopped and looked earnestly at Mr Yanagi, and raised my arms in a ‘what-do-I-know?’ sort of way.

  ‘First,’ he said, grabbing the bull by the horns, ‘I’d find out what type of cheese they meant. ‘Natural or processed, and how long it was aged for.’

  Where was he going with this? And what did it have to do with finding tone?

  ‘Bear with me.’ Mr Yanagi smiled and nodded. ‘Think about eggs – boiled eggs, for example. Some people like them soft-boiled, others like them harder.’

  I remained nonplussed.

  ‘But even within the soft-boiled category, there are degrees: some like the yolks to run away from them, others prefer them just on the turn – soft, but not runny. I like them a little harder myself, by the way, sprinkled with a little salt and a drizzle of olive oil. Delicious.’

  I’d never eaten a boiled egg with olive oil. I didn’t even own a bottle of the stuff.

  Mr Yanagi continued, ‘You can’t say what kind of boiled egg is better. It’s all a question of personal preference. Likewise, the sound the client is looking for in a piano is all a question of taste.’

  Finally, he’d circled back to the point.

  ‘To accompany steamed asparagus, an egg slow-boiled in a hot spring is the absolute best – the kind with a firm yolk but softer white. Use that almost as a sauce and it’s delicious. With me so far? On the other hand, the customer may insist on it being hard-boiled at a higher temperature, and it may be because this is simply what he’s used to.’

  It was a little tricky to follow him exactly, but I thought I understood.

  ‘In the same way, you have to check what standard the client is measuring against when they ask for a harder or softer sound. If they want it softer, you need to question it. Ask them what quality of soft sound they have in mind – is softness really what’s needed in that particular case? Obviously, technique is critical, but more essential is that you’re both on the same page. Ask the client to be specific about the texture of the tone they’re after, and try to focus on the ideal they have in their minds.’

  But even if they could pinpoint their ideal sound, that was only the beginning. Turning that concept of softness into reality was the essence of the tuner’s role.

  We walked on and Mr Yanagi looked up at the cloudless blue sky as though searching for something beyond it. If he was trying to find something beyond himself, then I too would need to extend my gaze further. But staring at the endless sky was hurting my eyes, so instead I looked back at the red berries on the yew trees along the street.

  There are all sorts of piano tuners and all sorts of approaches. As time passed I was more and more glad to be working under Mr Yanagi, with his floppy black hair and his eccentric metaphors, and wondered if one day I would be able to tune pianos as beautifully and effortlessly.

  Some people insist that words aren’t necessary. A good tone is a good tone. But rare is the client who can accurately explain what tone they’re after. It’s often more straightforward simply to present them with what you are confident sounds beautiful. Most people will be happy with that.

  But there are things you can interpret from their style of playing, and from what sort of music they prefer. Your choices as a tuner vary depending on the age of the pianist, the extent of their musical knowledge and level of playing, the characteristics of the piano itself and the shape of those characteristics, and the proportions of the room it’s placed in. You weave together all of these ingredients to create the most appropriate sound.

  ‘There are set types, you know.’

  We were back in the music shop now and slap bang in the middle of one of our most earnest discussions about the essence of our work. And Mr Akino, our colleague, was taking over the conversation. He was in his early forties, thin, with silver-framed glasses, and a permanently stern look, which frightened me a little. Unusually for someone his age he had young children at home – a little girl and a newborn baby boy. Which was probably why, no matter how crowded the shop might be, no matter how busy we were, he always left exactly on time. During the day he was mostly out on house calls so I rarely saw him, had no idea how he approached tuning and what sort of sound he produced. I was waiting for the chance to hear those sounds and to talk with him more about his work.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked Mr Akino.

  ‘Types of clients.’

  He’d often be in the office at noon, eating the bento lunch he’d brought from home. Today, he untied the gingham napkin around his bento box and held forth. ‘Most people are happy as long as the piano’s in tune and has a decent tone. Very few will request a specific timbre. So you have the type who has no special requests, and the type who does – there are two types, in other words.’ He wiped his mouth with his paper napkin and resumed chomping.

  ‘Do you modify the way you tune depending on which type they are?’

  ‘Of course. There’s nothing to be gained by working hard at something you haven’t been asked to do.’

  ‘So you only respond to requests when the client understands quality of tone,’ I said.

  It pained me to think of those types of clients the tuner considers don’t understand tone – how they could end up with just a standardized, uniform type of tuning. Maybe they would come to understand quality of tone. It was possible that they would hear the sound Mr Akino created and awaken to the variety of possibilities.

  If, back then on my first day of awakening, Mr Itadori had completed only a cursory tuning of the piano because it was just some rackety old grand in some school gymnasium, I wouldn’t have got to where I was. I’d no doubt have been somewhere completely different, in a world without pianos.

  ‘One more thing.’ Mr Akino peered into his bento box and seemed to be checking the remaining contents. He leaned his elbows on the table for emphasis and narrowed his eyes. ‘There’s a pattern, too, when it comes to clients’ requests. To give you an example, it’s like the set vocabulary people use to describe the b
ouquet of a wine and its taste.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve never drunk wine, Mr Akino.’

  Mr Akino tilted his head a degree in surprise, and snorted. ‘A teetotaller, are you?’

  I was twenty. The only spirits I’d ever had was a sip of omiki, the sacred sake people had at New Year’s when they made a visit to a shrine, or at autumn festivals. The training and homework on the piano-tuning course were so intense I had no time to feel in need of a drink. The first time I ever had a beer was at the welcome party when I joined this company. But the whole event had been pretty dull and I’d been left to my own devices as the new guy.

  ‘Even if you haven’t had wine you’ve certainly heard about these things. The fragrant nose of a certain wine, the aroma of mushrooms after rain, a smooth, velvet-like texture and so on.’

  I nodded vaguely, eyeing the grains of rice that lingered at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘There are patterns to descriptions. And tuning is similar. There are set patterns to the words we use when we talk with clients.’

  ‘A tone with a fragrant nose and so on?’

  ‘Yes, a bright sound, a clear sound, a lively sound – these are the sorts of requests you hear most often. To try to think what kind of sound you should make every time is too much. You set things beforehand: a bright sound means you take it to this level, a lively sound to this level, et cetera. That’s all you need to do.’

  ‘You choose a set tuning pattern to fit the set description?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Mr Akino picked up a little sausage carved into a cute octopus shape with his chopsticks. ‘You go to a typical home to tune their piano. They don’t ask for anything more than that, and doing anything more is pointless. In fact, if you make it too precise for them’ – he popped the sausage into his mouth, and his next words were somewhat muffled – ‘they might not be able to handle it.’

  An offhand remark, to which I had no response. I’d heard that Mr Akino had wanted to be a concert pianist. He had graduated from a prestigious music college and had performed for a while, but had later returned to study piano tuning.

  I found it discouraging to think we should aim for a piano that’s merely easy to play, that anyone can handle. And that an average player would not be able to fully appreciate or benefit from a perfectly tuned piano. Was this really the case? It filled me with a sense of conflict over what I should aim for in my new life as a burgeoning piano tuner.

  Nothing a Hammer Can’t Fix

  The days started to get shorter and cooler. By the time we left a client’s house, night would already be falling.

  ‘Sorry, but is it all right if I go straight home?’ asked Mr Yanagi one evening as we walked towards the car.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’ll take your case back to the office.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it.’

  A case full of tuning tools is actually quite heavy, so it was a bigger favour than it sounds.

  ‘Actually, I’ve something very important to do tonight.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  Mr Yanagi looked a little dissatisfied with my response. ‘How can you be so casual about it? Wouldn’t most people ask, What’s this important thing you have to attend to?’

  ‘Sorry. What’s this important thing you have to attend to?’

  ‘Oh, nothing!’ Mr Yanagi said, before looking up, eyes smiling. ‘The thing is …’ he said, suddenly serious, ‘I’m giving my girlfriend a ring.’

  ‘Girlfriend … a ring …’ I repeated awkwardly, and then, oh! ‘Goo–good lu–luck!’ I said, and Mr Yanagi chuckled happily.

  ‘What are you getting nervous about, Tomura?’

  ‘S–sorry.’ I gave a little bow and Mr Yanagi laughed again.

  ‘You’re a quirky fellow, aren’t you?’

  I waved goodbye and climbed into the little white company car on my own. The edges of the twilit mountains were tinged with pink.

  As I stopped at a red light a group of sixth-formers crossed in front of me. I was resting my hands on the steering wheel, gazing vacantly ahead, when I noticed one of the girls come to a halt and catch my eye. It was her! One of those twins who played the piano so amazingly. Which twin, however, I couldn’t say. I nodded to her, and she stood there on the crossing and started to say something that I had to lip-read.

  ‘You’re the piano tuner, aren’t you?’

  I rolled down the window and poked my head out. ‘I am,’ I said, although I was still just an apprentice. She said something to her friend before scurrying over to the car.

  ‘I’m so glad I bumped into you. Kazu – my older sister – said the A above middle C won’t play. But the shop told her Mr Yanagi is tied up with other clients and can’t come today.’

  So this was the younger one, Yuni. Mr Yanagi had really appreciated their playing, but especially hers. And yet he had decided he was too busy to go to their house today. Or had Miss Kitagawa at our office, who’d probably taken the call, made excuses on his behalf?

  ‘Would you be able to come over and check it out now?’ she asked hopefully.

  At that moment I wanted more than anything to help them, especially to repair a piano that wasn’t playing properly. But I had to be honest. ‘I’m sorry, but I doubt I’d be much help. I don’t have enough technical experience.’

  ‘So you’re not a proper piano tuner yet?’ She seemed disappointed.

  ‘Well, yes. I mean, I suppose I am.’

  But, you see, I’m still only – I was tempted to blurt out what I considered the truth, but managed to swallow my words. No, I am a tuner. This was no time for excuses.

  ‘Then please come over and have a look at it.’

  Standing there in the middle of the pedestrian crossing, she gave an energetic bow. This was definitely how she behaved, direct and full of exuberance, just like she played the piano.

  ‘Just give me a minute.’ The traffic light turned green, so I pulled over to call our office and explain. ‘Is it all right if I go instead?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said Miss Kitagawa.

  ‘OK, I’ll be off then. I’ll be in touch if I need to.’

  ‘I’ll let Mr Yanagi know. I told the client when she rang earlier that Mr Yanagi had something important on today but he would be free tomorrow.’

  So it was Miss Kitagawa who’d blocked Kazune’s request.

  By the time I’d finished on the phone Yuni had left her friends and was waiting for me.

  ‘Would you like a lift?’ I asked, rolling down the left-hand window, and she hopped in beside me. ‘You should sit in the back. It’s safer.’

  ‘Oh, the flat is just around the corner, so it’s fine. Besides, the back seat’s full of stuff.’

  She was right – I had tossed both sets of our tuning tools in the back.

  As she buckled herself in she turned to look at the rear seat. ‘Something’s fallen on the floor here.’

  I wondered what it was.

  ‘Oh, look, it’s a sweet little box.’

  ‘Hmmm?’ I was concentrating on turning a corner.

  ‘With a ribbon around it.’ She sounded excited. ‘It looks like a box for a ring.’

  ‘What?!’

  I was caught at another traffic light. I pulled on the handbrake and turned to get a proper look. A small box had fallen under the seat. Mr Yanagi must have dropped it. If he’d dropped the ring he was due to offer his girlfriend, what was he doing now without it? I wondered. I was worried, but cannot deny I was also a little grateful to Mr Yanagi. Yuni had been a little tense ever since she had first spotted me, but now, thanks to the ring, she seemed happy and relaxed. I reached down, retrieved the box and placed it on the dashboard. The dark red ribbon was reflected in the windscreen like a flower.

  Yuni’s house was close by.

  ‘I’m back!’ she called as we entered. ‘And I brought the tuner with me!’

  Kazune appeared from the back room. ‘Great! I thought I wasn’t going to be able to play the piano today. It was agony
! I was beginning to wonder how I was going to sleep tonight.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, although ‘agony’ felt a little disproportionate here.

  I stepped across the carpet to the piano and opened up the lid. Testing the keys from one end to the other, one very noticeably became stuck.

  ‘Ah, here’s your problem,’ I said, my nose inches away from the strings inside.

  ‘Can you fix it? You can fix it, can’t you?’ said the twins in unison, a little desperately.

  I was happy to reassure them.

  The flange that connected the hammer and the key had seized up. A slight adjustment and it would be back to normal.

  ‘At this time of year you have to be careful of the humidity,’ I commented.

  Pianos are precise instruments made of wood. All piano tuners have it drummed into their heads to notice humidity levels, particularly in autumn and winter. If the humidity level gets too high, the wood expands. Screws loosen. Steel rusts. The tone will slip. Things are different here in Hokkaido. Humidity will still alter the sound of a piano, but what we have to be more careful of in autumn and winter is dryness. Low humidity, in other words.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ the twins said.

  I pressed the key to test it, and the hammer lifted naturally. It was a simple fix.

  ‘Could we try playing it?’ Yuni asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  Yuni took her place in front of the piano. Kazune sat beside her on the other stool. Within moments they had launched into a duet.

  The sound filled the room, the notes spinning and swirling. I had no idea what they were playing with such focus and energy, but the twins had come alive, the life force flowing from their dark, sparkling eyes, from their flushed cheeks, from the very ends of the hair that fell to their shoulders. They were reading from a score, but the story they told through the music was utterly their own, and in those moments it felt as if the performance they offered up was for me alone.

  ‘Bravo!’ I clapped loudly. It was an inadequate response, and I felt ashamed that it was all I could muster. ‘Thank you so very much,’ I added for good measure.