She returned her hands to her lap for a moment, then slowly began to play her piece. It started so naturally I had no time to gather myself – as though she’d quietly latched on to music drifting about in the ether, and was channelling it for us through the piano. Her hands were sure and confident as they moved up and down the run of the keys, never faltering. When Kazune played, everything seemed heightened in its reality, as if the piano and the music had a life of their own.
Leisurely enough at the start, by halfway through the piece the sound was utterly sublime, with the notes lingering in the air like a cascade of sparkling gemstones, stretching as they emerged before fading away, as pure as can be, each tone in perfect harmony with the rest.
‘It’s completely different from when she practised at home,’ Yuni said excitedly. ‘So this is what you can do – to make it sound like this!’ Face flushed, she turned to me. ‘You are amazing, Mr Tomura. I can’t wait to start learning how to tune. I want to be your apprentice.’
I fell silent. Whaat?
My voice was off-key. ‘The amazing person here isn’t me, it’s Kazune.’
She had sounded out the possibilities at first, and now the instrument belonged to her. Just as Yuni had said, Kazune could adjust to playing any piano.
‘Not at all – it’s the tone of this piano pulling her along. Kazune’s riding it, enjoying herself, drawing out sounds she’s never dreamed of before.’
At that point a member of the restaurant staff appeared in the hall. ‘Is it all right if we start getting things ready in here? We don’t mind if you continue playing.’
‘Yes, please go ahead,’ I said.
I was glad we’d come early. Glad that she’d had time to try out the piano.
Several of the waiting staff appeared and began rearranging the tables. Kazune, unperturbed by the commotion around her, played on.
‘Mr Yanagi let her choose all the pieces, too,’ Yuni whispered to me. ‘The two of us talked it over a lot, wondering what sort of music would be appropriate for a wedding reception.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be perfect,’ I said, and Yuni nodded. The second piece was baroque in style, an upbeat, fast-moving yet gentle piece. This wasn’t a solo performance or competition entry, but music to add a touch of colour to Mr Yanagi’s wedding reception. Gentle, pleasant pieces were just the thing, I reckoned. Just as I was thinking how great it all sounded, it happened.
What the—? I suddenly thought. I looked at the piano and at Kazune. She was still playing, a serene expression on her face. Beyond her, the staff were spreading pale pink cloths on the tables. Nothing about the piano or Kazune had changed over the last few minutes.
But something was bothering me. The sound was different – more muffled and less clear than before.
‘Excuse me,’ someone said from behind us. I turned to see another waiter passing by, arms full of tablecloths. I stood a little further away from the piano. Activity was picking up around the room. Kazune seemed to be playing just the same as before, but something had definitely shifted.
Was she holding back out of consideration for the restaurant which was now so busy? The sound was no longer reaching out. Before the fine vibrations had time to reach my ears, they were falling apart and scattering along the floor.
I approached the piano to check things out, but drew to a halt. There was no change to Kazune’s playing. It was definitely the piano – the sound had no oomph to it and wasn’t projecting. And what’s more, the sound kept changing with each step as I drew closer to the piano. ‘Excuse me. I need to check something.’
Kazune had finished, and turned to face me, hands in her lap.
‘Did you change how you were playing, from the way you were in the beginning?’ I asked, and she shook her head.
‘Do you feel like the sound has changed?’
She gave a slight nod. ‘All of a sudden it doesn’t sing like it did before.’
She looked behind me and I followed her gaze. Yuni was at the back of the hall. She motioned her sister to play one more time.
Something wasn’t right.
Eyes on Kazune, I moved away from the piano, slowly edging towards the first table. Making my way around the staff members, I moved to the next table, and then the next. The sound wandered, disordered and confused, bounced off the moving waiting staff and was absorbed by the spread-out tablecloths. I could feel this in my very skin. Suddenly I recalled how, in the twins’ music room, it had seemed such a waste that the sound was deadened by the heavy cloth curtains.
I’d been careless and had barely considered the surroundings. I’d only worked with pianos in domestic homes and my inexperience showed. But this wasn’t the time for regret and there was no time for introspection. I had to retune it. Oh, but how could I? There’d be more tablecloths, and the place would be full of guests, each of them reflecting or absorbing the sound. The ceaseless activity of staff bringing in and taking out food, the clatter of silverware against plates, people whispering to each other fond memories of the bride and groom … I needed to imagine all of this in order to adjust the sound. Would there be enough time? There had to be.
‘Kazune, please let me adjust the piano a bit.’
She nodded, accommodating as ever.
‘Kazune will be fine. She can play any piano anywhere,’ Yuni said with a mischievous smile. I hated how tactless I was being.
‘My apologies,’ I said, bowing to the girls. I remembered how I’d bowed in apology to them before. How, while still a beginner, I’d thought I could tune their piano by myself but ended up unable to. Since then, nothing had changed. The only thing I had now was a little more technique, a little more experience and the determination to get things right at all costs.
‘This might take a while, so why don’t you find a corner to take a break and relax?’ I bowed to them once more. I had no idea how long it would take, and more worryingly, there was no guarantee I’d even be able to do it.
‘Mr Tomura,’ Yuni said cheerfully, ‘it’ll be OK. I’ll sit over there and you can transmit the sound in my direction.’
Transmit? Unable to fathom what she was saying, I must have looked perplexed. As Yuni walked to the back of the hall she said it in a different way.
‘Umm, it’d be good to draw the sound out all the way over to here. That sound you’re getting right now. Draw out – is that the right expression? Umm – lift the sound all the way over here!’
I couldn’t help chuckling as she struggled to come up with the right word. ‘Thank you.’
Transmit, draw out, lift. I knew what Yuni was trying to express. The question was how to produce it.
The vague words began to take shape. Make it shine. Lift the sounds and make them shine – that’s what I had to do. The constellations. Tonight the ones you could see would be Ursa Minor, Ursa Major, Leo. No matter where you viewed them from, they shone high up in the sky, the outline of them eternal.
‘Bright, quiet, crystal-clear writing.’
I murmured this to myself and stood ready in front of the piano.
My constellation. Always there above the forest, and all I needed to do was head towards it.
As lovely as a dream, yet as exact as reality.
That was my constellation. I had to make it shine upon Kazune as she played, and Yuni, too, seated further off. I started by adjusting the depth of the pedals so that when Kazune depressed them the sound would resonate the way she wanted it to, and spread to each and every corner of this room. Next came the way the casters lay beneath the legs. Once, before a recital, Mr Itadori had changed the direction in which they faced in order to adjust the sound. Back then I’d merely watched, impressed. But now I understood: the centre of gravity was currently with the legs all facing inwards. Making them face outwards instead would bend the column plate to an infinitesimal degree, thereby changing how the sound radiated out. I had done all that I could.
Kazune, resplendent in a chartreuse dress, began to play. This was less solemn, mor
e rousing, and I barely recognized it – a wedding march. A celebratory piece to hail the happy couple. Kazune played the grace notes slowly, as if they were the melody. In a way this in itself was as lovely as a dream, as exact as reality. The bride and groom, joyful and beaming, made their entrance and everyone applauded. As they passed by the tables, they nodded shyly to those around them. Miss Hamano, the new bride, was radiant. She bowed to the surrounding guests as the couple made their way to the front of the room.
‘Aren’t weddings wonderful?’ I couldn’t help but whisper to Mr Akino beside me.
‘You’re gutsier than I imagined, Tomura.’ He gave a forced smile. ‘If it were me and the pianist was playing a piano I’d tuned, I’d be feeling pretty tense, not smiling and chatting like you’re doing.’
Now that he mentioned it, I realized I wasn’t tense at all. Kazune probably wasn’t either. The light, cheerful sound continued. This was different from a concert. Neither the piano nor the pianist – let alone the tuner – were the lead players here, since this was Mr Yanagi and Miss Hamano’s wedding reception. The salons of old might well have felt like this.
‘I don’t know, I just really like it.’
Mr Akino’s mouth turned down at the corners for a moment.
‘I suppose,’ he admitted reluctantly, and then murmured, ‘The piano sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?’
I nodded, glancing across at Yuni. She was smiling, tears welling up in her eyes. What the tears meant, I had no idea. I couldn’t fathom the emotions running through the twins as Yuni kept a close and loving eye on Kazune. All I could do was watch, bedazzled, as they smiled and cried, the piano always at the centre of their lives.
‘You’ve never praised me before,’ I said and glanced at Mr Akino beside me. He was back to looking blasé.
I wasn’t sure if he was saying the tuning was good, or Kazune’s playing, but it didn’t matter. You couldn’t say that one of these was good without the other.
‘Kazune’s playing so beautifully,’ Yuni said in a tearful voice. ‘She’s celebrating Mr Yanagi’s marriage, saying congratulations to them. It sounds that way, don’t you think?’
Congratulations? Maybe. But it seemed a little softer than that to me. It was so gentle, so exquisite, going straight to the heart in a way that nearly made me cry.
I nodded emphatically. ‘Kazune is absolutely going to be a great pianist.’
Even if you didn’t know anything about music you were helplessly drawn in as she played. Even if you decided not to listen, not to notice it, you couldn’t help but look up. That was the power of Kazune’s playing. In her hands, she could express joy or sadness with a single note, all seemingly without effort. Never showy, always gentle – the particles of sound were so fine they sank directly into the heart, and stayed there.
When you heard Kazune play, it summoned up visible, tangible scenery. Light shining down among the trees, wet with morning dew. Drops of water sparkling on the tips of leaves, then dripping down. One morning, repeated over and over again. A vibrancy and solemnity born fresh and new.
It was true, I decided. She really was sending out her congratulations.
Kazune’s playing was a celebration of life.
‘You said absolutely,’ Mr Akino whispered.
‘Yes.’
‘You maintain there’s no such thing as an absolute sound, yet you just said Kazune will absolutely become a great pianist. Well,’ he went on, ‘I would have to agree with you.’
We gathered to eat, and all my colleagues from the company were seated together.
I was thrilled that a piano I had tuned could sound so good. I’d previously thought that if another tuner could coax an even better sound from a piano, I’d have no problem in handing over the reins. For the sake of the instrument, for the person playing, for all those enjoying the music.
But now I felt differently. I wanted to tune Kazune’s piano. I wanted to make it better. I wanted it to be me at the reins.
Tuning accomplished on whose behalf? Who was it I wanted to make happy?
Kazune, of course.
I loved her playing, and I’d tried to ensure this piano gave full voice to the beauty of her performance. In that moment, I had had neither Mr Yanagi nor the wedding guests in mind. All I had thought of was Kazune’s playing.
Which I now realized was a mistake – I should have thought of the guests as well, considered the size of the room and the height of the ceiling. The front seats, the seats at the back, the middle seats, near the door – how many people would be there, and where. I should have imagined in advance how the sound would project, so that it would reach each and every one of them in equal measure.
Up until now I’d only tuned pianos in people’s homes. And that wouldn’t do if I wanted to tune Kazune’s piano. I finally understood that. I’d been so sure I wasn’t going to aim at being a concert piano tuner, and it had been a mistake to think in that way.
‘It’d be good to check that the dampers are all coming down as one.’ Mr Itadori’s voice was cool, yet his words were firm. I’d adjusted the pedals so the dampers would all lift together, but hadn’t thought about the way they’d come down.
‘You need to assist Kazune in bringing out the very best qualities in her performance,’ he added.
‘You’re absolutely right.’
When she had played the piano in our little auditorium at the showroom, the chords she had produced were exquisite. My conjecture had been that she had enhanced the sound through her pedal technique. And I was right.
I trembled at the thought that I had learned something new. (One truly can tremble with excitement, it turns out.) I’d adjusted the pedals so they would be a touch more sensitive. Any more and they’d be too responsive. Yet Mr Itadori was telling me to make them even more precise.
‘I think you should trust Kazune more.’
‘I know.’
He trusted Kazune, and at this moment I felt as though he trusted me, too.
‘That’s part of our job as tuners, too, to nurture pianists.’
Later, when she took a break from playing, I’d adjust the pedals for maximum sensitivity. I’d been told how humiliating it was to retune a piano in the middle of a performance, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was helping Kazune produce the most beautiful, memorable sound she could.
‘I wonder if maybe …’ Mr Akino began. ‘If maybe someone like Tomura might actually get there.’
Someone like Tomura? What kind of person did he mean? And get where?
‘I think you’re right.’ The MD was leaning over to eavesdrop on our conversation. ‘I always thought it odd that someone like you would become a tuner. I wondered why Mr Itadori had recommended you so highly.’
So Mr Itadori had recommended me? I thought they hired on a first-come, first-served basis.
‘What do you mean – someone like me?’ I asked.
‘How should I put it? A person who was raised, well … someone with an upbringing like yours.’
Miss Kitagawa had said the same thing to me before. And I don’t think she had meant it as a compliment. It felt as if she meant someone bland and boring.
‘But now I think someone like Tomura is the type who can make his way, very patiently, persistently, step by step, through the forest of wool and steel.’
‘I think you’re right,’ Mr Itadori agreed generously. ‘Because Tomura lived in the mountains, and the forest raised him.’
‘This is delicious!’ Miss Kitagawa suddenly said loudly, interrupting everyone. ‘Oh – sorry!’ she said and looked down.
‘The soup? It really is scrumptious.’ This came from Yuni, chiming in.
Thanks to which, the echoes of Mr Itadori’s comment faded away before I could really ruminate on it. Lived in the mountains, raised by the forest. Was that the case? The idea made me deeply happy. Clearly a forest had been growing within me as well.
Perhaps I hadn’t taken the wrong path after all. Even if it took time, even if ther
e were detours, this was exactly the right path for me. I had thought there was nothing in the forest, nothing in the scenery around me, but now I knew: everything was there. It wasn’t that it was hidden, but that I simply hadn’t seen it.
Relief washed over me.
‘Do you know something?’ Miss Kitagawa wiped her mouth with a white napkin. ‘There’s lots of sheep farming where you grew up, isn’t there? I was thinking how the Chinese character for good or excellent, , contains the character for sheep, .’
‘Really?’
‘And I read recently how the character for beauty, too, , is derived from the character for sheep.’
She contemplated this for a while, and then added, as though further details had come back to her, ‘In ancient China, sheep were like the gold standard for everything. They were sacrificed to the gods, too. Isn’t that what you are always doing? Doing your utmost to find the good? The beautiful? When I realized that all of these words are derived from sheep, I thought – you know what? They’re already there, inside the piano, from the very start.’
She was right. From the very beginning, the good and the beautiful are already there – inside that mighty, gleaming instrument.
I looked over and saw that Kazune was just beginning another piece. And it was indeed beautiful and right.
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Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Doubleday an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Originally published in Japanese as Hitsuji To Hagane No Mori by Natsu Miyashita. All rights reserved. English translation rights arranged with Bungeishunju Ltd through le Bureau des Copyrights Français, Tokyo.
Copyright © Natsu Miyashita, 2015
English translation copyright © Philip Gabriel, 2019
Cover images © Shutterstock. Design by R. Shailer/TW
Natsu Miyashita has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
The Forest of Wool and Steel Page 16
