The Forest of Wool and Steel

by Natsu Miyashita

  The girls smiled with pleasure and bowed. ‘No one has ever appreciated our playing so much,’ Yuni said.

  ‘Really?’ I was unsure how to respond.

  ‘Yes, really,’ Kazune confirmed.

  How could that be? I wondered. That couldn’t be right, at all. They were just being modest.

  ‘It makes us glow, doesn’t it?’ Yuni said, nudging her sister.

  ‘Yep.’

  Yuni was holding both hands to her cheeks, while Kazune shyly scratched her head. Somehow it was now more obvious to me which twin was which.

  ‘Well then, I’d best be off,’ I said.

  As I made to leave, one of the girls placed a hand on my arm. ‘Wait a moment. It does feel like the whole pitch is higher. Maybe because it’s so dry outside?’

  ‘It’s a little bit awkward,’ both girls said at once, and I admit it slightly concerned me too. But the sound wasn’t particularly off. It’d be fine without serious adjustment. If someone were to adjust it, it would need to be Mr Yanagi.

  But I was so tempted to try. I could have a go, couldn’t I? So the twins could enjoy the piano the way they really wanted.

  I should have known.

  Each piano is different, and this was my first solo tuning appointment. The room was very dry. It wasn’t hot but still I was sweating. I shouldn’t have been nervous, but my fingers were trembling. I should have turned the pins slightly but I overdid it. I tried to turn them back, and my fingers slipped. Something I usually found so simple was taking for ever. Just a touch, just a touch, I thought, but found the sounds shifting in directions I didn’t want them to go. The tone became totally uneven. The more I fussed over it, the worse it got, and the more flustered I became, the further the vibrations of sound slipped out of control. Time passed and I was covered in sweat. Everything I’d learned, all the nights of practice I’d put in at the showroom, flew right out of the window.

  My mobile buzzed in my breast pocket. Stepping away from the piano, I looked at the display. It was from Mr Yanagi. The one person I hoped wouldn’t call, but also the one I hoped would call.

  ‘It’s me. Sorry to bother you, but the ring—’

  ‘I have it,’ I said in a flash.

  ‘Oh, what a relief! I was in a panic about it.’ After a pause he said, ‘What’s wrong, Tomura? Is everything OK?’

  It must have been in my voice. I gave up trying to hide it. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Yanagi, but you need to attend an urgent tuning appointment, first thing tomorrow morning.’ It had taken all my strength of will to say this, and I also bowed to Mr Yanagi on the other end of the line. ‘I’m here checking the piano at the Sakuras’ place, but I think I’ve really messed it up.’

  Mr Yanagi was silent. ‘O–kay,’ he finally said slowly.

  I felt completely dreadful at my own foolishness and ambition. I’d plunged ahead on my own, had screwed up, and tomorrow we would need to return free of charge.

  ‘But hang on,’ said one of the twins. They were in the corner of the room, quietly watching me. Yuni, I think it was, strode briskly over to the piano. ‘This is actually a really great sound.’ She struck the A above middle C. It rang out clear, free and relaxed, far from the agitation I felt. ‘And this sound is good, too, to go along with it.’ She tapped the adjacent key. Plonk, plonk. The one next to that. And next to that.

  ‘It might sound a little bold, but I totally get what you’re going for. A commanding sound. I think that’s the sound I was after. So even if it isn’t exactly what you had in mind, I don’t dislike it at all. It just needs a little more – a little more something.’

  ‘Totally,’ Kazune chimed in. ‘No matter how well it all goes together, if it’s tuned to a totally harmonious, flawless sound, that’s sort of disappointing, even bland. I prefer this sort of defiant sound, too.’

  Defiant? What was I trying to defy? All I could do was remain silent. I wasn’t defying anything. I’d simply bitten off more than I could chew.

  ‘I’m really sorry.’ As I bowed my head, I felt hot tears begin to fill my eyes. ‘Tomorrow morning Mr Yanagi will come over. Again, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK – we’re the ones who dragged you over here!’ Yuni said.

  I apologized once more and left the room. My briefcase felt unduly heavy. I’d totally blown it, I thought. Complain about Mr Akino’s methods? Who was I to do that?

  I left their apartment building and walked slowly to the car park. It was dark now and the temperature had dropped. The windscreen had fogged up so I drove back carefully, while other drivers beeped at me to speed up.

  Back at the shop the shutters were closed on the ground floor but lights were still on upstairs. It wasn’t so late, but on days when there were no piano lessons the shop closed at six thirty. I hoped no one else was lingering after hours.

  I walked in through the service entrance and trudged upstairs, the two cases weighing me down. Expecting no one else to be there, I opened the door and found that, today of all days, Mr Itadori was still around. He had on one of the jackets he wore on visits, so I assumed he’d just returned from a client. I couldn’t look him in the face; there was so much I wanted to learn from him, but I felt so hopeless. More than ever I felt there was probably nothing Mr Itadori could teach someone like me.

  ‘Good evening, Tomura,’ he said, looking up from some papers.

  I responded in a weak mumble; I seemed incapable of holding it together.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Mr Itadori.’ I tried to keep my voice from shaking. ‘What should I do to be good at tuning?’

  I realized immediately what a stupid question it was. I was nowhere near good – I couldn’t even master the basics. The rule was to spend six months shadowing a more experienced tuner and learning from him, but I’d broken that. I recalled the legend of Orpheus who’d looked behind him at the last moment, sending his dead wife back to the underworld. Had he really been just a few steps from the world of the living?

  ‘An excellent question, Tomura,’ Mr Itadori said gravely. He looked as though he was pondering this deeply.

  The original sound he had produced so long ago in the school gym suddenly floated into my memory. The first piano sounds I’d ever heard. I was still searching to hear them again, but I hadn’t come any closer. Maybe I’d never be able to. I trembled with a sort of fear – the kind you feel when you first set foot into a dense forest.

  ‘What should I do?’ I said.

  To which Mr Itadori replied, ‘If you don’t mind?’ He held out a tuning hammer. ‘Do you fancy using this?’

  I grasped the handle. It was heavier than expected but fitted my hand perfectly.

  ‘A gift.’

  I was taken aback and must have looked doubtful.

  ‘Don’t you need it?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes! I really do,’ I replied. The forest might be deep but I knew in that moment I had no plans to turn back. ‘It looks really easy to use.’

  ‘It doesn’t just look easy to use – it does actually make the whole job easier. If you’d like it, it’s yours. To celebrate,’ Mr Itadori said serenely, his eyes suddenly twinkling.

  ‘Celebrate what?’

  On this of all days. The worst day of my life.

  ‘Somehow I get the feeling from watching you, Tomura, that you’re on your way now. So I thought this was a moment worth celebrating.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’ My lips quivered. Mr Itadori was trying to encourage me. I was standing at the entrance to the forest and here he was telling me I was on the right path.

  So many times I’d watched furtively as he cleaned the tuning hammers, longing to hold one, desperate to learn more about the tools he used and how best to handle them. I never imagined I’d get to have one of my very own so soon.

  ‘Mr Itadori, can I ask you a question?’ I clasped the tuning hammer tightly in my right hand. ‘What sort of sound do you aim for when you tune?’

  The question I’d been holding in for so l
ong.

  ‘The sound I aim for?’ he asked, relaxed as ever, leaning back in his seat, arms behind his head.

  I hoped that, as far as possible, his answer would be neither too specific nor unattainable.

  ‘Tomura, are you familiar with Tamiki Hara?’

  I’d heard the name. I didn’t think he was a piano tuner. Was he a concert pianist?

  ‘This is the way he put it.’ Mr Itadori cleared his throat and sat up. ‘Bright, quiet, crystal-clear writing that evokes fond memories, that seems a touch sentimental yet is unsparing and deep, writing as lovely as a dream, yet as exact as reality.’

  I wasn’t sure what he meant, but then it hit me. Tamiki Hara was a novelist. A name I’d learned at school in Japanese literature lessons.

  ‘Tamiki Hara wrote that he was enraptured by this kind of writing, and when I first read his words I was carried away. I felt that this exactly described the ideal sound I was hoping for.’

  He’d substituted sound for writing.

  ‘I’m sorry, but could you say that all again?’ I said, taking a seat.

  I wanted to listen extra carefully the second time around.

  ‘One more time, that’s all,’ Mr Itadori said, stretching his arms above his head, pulling at his brown suede jacket – a garment that had seen much better days. He cleared his throat again. ‘Bright, quiet, crystal-clear writing that evokes fond memories, that seems a touch sentimental yet is unsparing and deep, writing as lovely as a dream, yet as exact as reality.’

  That’s precisely the sound Mr Itadori produced – the sound that changed my world for ever. It had taken four years and now I was finally here. I was compelled to forge ahead. It was the only way open to me.

  ‘Oh.’ Mr Itadori looked over as the door suddenly opened. A second later Mr Yanagi bustled in.

  ‘Mr Yanagi!’ I said.

  He strode over, anger in his eyes, instead of his normal friendly twinkle. He grabbed hold of the tuning case I’d brought in earlier. ‘Let’s go.’

  Go where? I almost asked. But I knew. I hurriedly took hold of my own case. I was about to say, ‘But, Mr Yanagi, you had something very important to do today.’

  Before I could get this out, he said, ‘I came to fetch the ring. I’ll go back to my girlfriend later. But first, let’s do what needs to be done as efficiently as we can.’

  It wasn’t something that could be dealt with quickly, and Mr Yanagi was well aware of that.

  ‘I’m really sorry about all this,’ I said, a little meekly.

  ‘Everyone blows it the first time. It can’t be helped. You were just a little too hasty, Tomura.’ Mr Yanagi now turned to Mr Itadori, who sat listening, hands in pockets, a bemused look on his face. ‘Have a nice evening,’ Mr Yanagi said with a grunt.

  My bag in my right hand, my own new tuning hammer in my left, I trotted off after Mr Yanagi. I turned around to say goodbye to Mr Itadori and saw he’d unbuttoned his brown jacket, rolled up his sleeves and was diligently polishing his tuning tools.

  Good Sheep Make for a Good Sound

  The needle thrust through a felt hammer, once, twice. Very deliberately, and without hesitation, Mr Yanagi pierced the felt one more time, then deftly returned the hammer to its original position. He moved on to the next hammer. Once, twice, three times. Standing beside him I kept a careful count of how many times he did this, before realizing that the number wasn’t important. Rather, it was the placement of the needle, the direction, the precise angle, the depth – something you could only grasp by instinct and feel.

  Today’s client, an elderly lady, wanted us to retune an equally aged piano. She was apologetic: the piano clearly hadn’t been looked after, although the casing had been nicely dusted and polished and looked rather lovely in the tranquil old room filled with antiques. It was an upright model by a Japanese manufacturer no longer in business and it had lingered unplayed and untuned for years.

  ‘Do you think you can get this piano back to the way it was?’ the lady asked us.

  ‘We’ll do everything we can,’ Mr Yanagi reassured her, although given the instrument’s state of neglect, it might require extensive repairs as well.

  The client seemed satisfied with Mr Yanagi’s reply. She inserted a brass key into the lock and turned it with a click.

  The keyboard was ivory, a little yellowed with time. Mr Yanagi pressed a few keys to test them. The sound was muffled and certainly out of tune, but not as bad as I’d imagined. He played two octaves with both hands, then as the lady patiently watched from the corner of the room, he quickly twisted the screws, lifted off the front panel and placed it on the hard floor. He examined the strings and hammers, and turned to her with a broad smile.

  ‘You asked if we could return it to its original condition?’ he said quietly. ‘Well, I think we can. And with a little further adjustment, I think we can achieve an even better sound than it had originally.’

  He added, ‘Of course this is up to you. We can either bring back its original sound, or else try to achieve a different tone that you’d prefer now.’

  The lady touched her whitish hair as she considered. ‘Either option is OK?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘You really can do either?’

  ‘Absolutely, either one. We’ll aim to create the tone you find most pleasing.’

  With this assurance from Mr Yanagi, the lady smiled broadly, looking relieved. ‘All right, then please tune it to the way it used to sound.’

  ‘Of course,’ Mr Yanagi replied. Then, as if the question had just struck him, he said, ‘May I ask who used to play this piano?’

  ‘My daughter. She gave up before she became really good. Neither my husband nor I play, so maybe it was inevitable.’

  In a quiet voice she continued, ‘We didn’t look after the piano in the days when my daughter used to play. It probably didn’t show itself at its best. I feel bad asking for it to be returned to its original sound if, as you say, you can make it sound even better.’

  ‘No, please don’t feel that way,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Every person has their own preferred sound.’

  She looked somewhat comforted at this, but it was true. I understood why she wanted to get back to the way it sounded when her daughter had played.

  ‘It’ll probably take us two or three hours. We’ll just go ahead, so please don’t worry about us. I’ll let you know if I have any questions.’ Mr Yanagi nodded to her and I bowed.

  After the lady had shuffled silently out of the room, Mr Yanagi set to work. Improving the timbre of the piano required adjustment of the voicing as well as the tuning.

  First he removed all the hammers, along with the wooden frame. The hammers of a piano are made of densely compacted woollen felt and should be neither too hard nor too soft in texture. Too hard and they produce a tinny tinkling sound; too soft and the sound is stifled. The final step in adjusting the voicing is to rub the hammers down with a fine file or adjust their elasticity by piercing them with a needle.

  It’s a very precise operation and hard to get absolutely right. There are certain spots to file down or pierce, and you only learn these by feel. You file down or pierce with a needle, concentrating on the type of sound you’re aiming for – and each and every piano, each and every hammer, is different. It’s a laborious and time-consuming process. If your hand slips, you can ruin a hammer. It’s tense work, but as I watched Mr Yanagi’s deftness of touch, it looked enjoyable too. Satisfying. How wonderful it would be to create a sound like this myself one day. To discover the unique personality of a piano, take into consideration the individual qualities of the pianist, determine the sound they prefer, and then create that very sound.

  The voicing Mr Yanagi found in the instrument was enchanting. Never one for gaudiness or show, he came up with a light and delicate tone.

  ‘Oh, how delightful that sounds!’ The tuning was finished, and the lady smiled sweetly at what she heard. ‘It’s perfect – look, the whole room is bright and cheery again.’

  I was happy to s
ee the old lady so pleased, even though I could take none of the credit. It’s a pure kind of happiness that a successful tuning brings – for the tuner as well as the client – not unlike the joy to be found in seeing wildflowers along the roadside in bloom.

  ‘You used the needle a lot, didn’t you?’ I asked this in the car on the way back to the shop. Mr Yanagi seemed a little exhausted, and had slumped down in his seat. ‘Is it because it hadn’t been tuned for so long?’

  I knew I shouldn’t question him when he looked so weary, but I couldn’t help myself. I wished I could take notes, but of course had to keep my hands on the wheel, since I was always the one driving. There was so very much I needed to learn from Mr Yanagi.

  ‘You used the needle to get it back to the sound it had originally, I assume? What I mean is, were there lots of places in the hammers where they’d been pierced before? Even if you can’t see them, can you tell by touch?’

  ‘Nope,’ muttered Mr Yanagi, as he sprawled against the seat. ‘Those hammer heads had never been pierced before. They were old, but like new. The previous tuner was not the type who’d pierce them.’

  ‘What?’

  Opinion is divided among tuners on the matter of whether or not to pierce the hammers. With brand-new hammers that are a little tinny in sound, piercing them gives a soft and richer tone. But if you don’t pierce them in exactly the right spot it makes them deteriorate more quickly. It’s both a time-consuming and risky business, so many tuners choose never to pierce the hammers.

  ‘Then why did you pierce those hammers so much?’

  ‘Because I knew that would produce a good tone.’

  I glanced at him in surprise, but he went on casually, eyes closed. ‘It was a shame to let that piano rot away. It needs to be played.’

  ‘But doesn’t that mean you ended up producing something different from how it originally sounded?’

  ‘If you compare the preferred tone from those days and now, they would be different, I expect.’