I ventured to say that I had always hoped to study Schumann’s Carnaval.
“There’s no comparison,” he answered. “You’ll see. For me, this is much more profound.”
Once again, he was right. There was an entire world contained in the pages of the Davidsbündlertänze, one that reached far beyond the introspective Eusebius and the passionate Florestan. A world we took our time to explore—an hour’s lesson for a line of music.
“When you play this work, everything must remain even,” he said. “Avoid any obvious effects like changes in tempo, or excessive fortissimi and pianissimi. If you don’t, the whole structure crumbles. Only your attack must vary. This is the only technique you should use to express the piece’s emotion.”
Gabriel Chodos is a consummate interpreter and teacher, and—like all real musicians—a modest man. He stood humble before the music, which he considered sacred. When he gave a concert, he stopped giving classes a week in advance. The day before the performance, he would gather his forces, neither eating nor touching the piano. And when he played, he removed his watch and wedding ring. With his students he was self-effacing, as only true masters know how to be.
“Haydn? You know him better than I do,” he said once when we were discussing the composer.
Of course, I didn’t believe him: he just doesn’t particularly like Haydn!
A few years later, the extreme modesty of this artist became fully apparent to me. I was living in Paris, and had thrown myself into a brief, nerve-racking career as a concert organizer. On the day Chodos arrived, he changed hotels three times. This one had no hot water, that one was too noisy, in the third the carpet was dirty. Finally, he agreed to stay with a friend of mine. To get to the concert hall, he refused to take either a taxi (“French taxi drivers are too unpleasant”) or the metro (“too noisy”).
“But Gabriel, how are we going to get there? I don’t have a car.”
“Ask a friend who has a car to take us there. But make sure that he or she doesn’t say a word on the way!”
The night of the concert, we drove silently to the Sacem concert hall. When we got there, he gave me his final instructions:
“I don’t want to see anyone at the intermission, and I don’t want to hear any remarks after the concert.”
That evening, however, what I found even more touching than his almost childlike vulnerability was the question he asked me at the end of the concert. He had just given a magnificent interpretation of Schubert’s Impromptus, Opus 142, and Beethoven’s Opus 111, which he considered to be the single greatest work in the entire piano repertoire.
“Do you really think that I have it in me to give concerts? Should I go on?”
I was moved by his doubt. I wanted to tell him that, in my opinion, the very finest pianists, like him, are vulnerable and fragile, even those who don’t seem like it—Rachmaninoff, Schnabel, Serkin, Guilels, Lipatti, and Kempff, not to mention Chopin. Or I could have quoted Laozi, with whom I had become acquainted: “Therefore the stiff and unbending is the disciple of death. The gentle and yielding is the disciple of life.” I was too moved, however, to say anything more than, “If you stop, you will be unhappy.”
Of all of Gabriel Chodos’s lessons, one in particular stands out. He believed that it is through exhaustive exploration of a single piece of music that you deepen your knowledge of both the piano and of music, rather than by studying a range of different works. Many renowned scholars know that the most important discoveries are the result of long and in-depth study of a very specific topic. By doing so, you develop a method that can be applied to any subject.
Discovering the universal in the particular, and striving to reach the infinite by patient exploration of the finite—these are lessons worthy of reflection.
18
With Oliver
No one listens to him,
No one notices him,
And the dogs growl
Around the old man.
(Franz Schubert, Winterreise,
set to poems by Wilhelm Müller)
I needed to find a place of my own in Boston. Mary Lou was extremely generous, but she was already putting up Like and Xiaohong, and I couldn’t impose on her hospitality any longer. Fortunately, ever since the Boston Symphony Orchestra’s tour in China, there was considerable interest in Chinese people. Dominique, an exceptionally talented flutist, offered to let me stay with her. She lived in a spacious nine-room house with her dog, Oliver.
The first night, I was jolted awake at two in the morning by shouting.
“No—no—that’s still not right!”
Oliver was howling madly; I rushed from my room. There I found Dominique, flute in hand, out of sorts. Nothing was particularly wrong—she was just practicing. This was a nightly occurrence: she never stopped working until she had achieved the result she wanted.
She also kept to a very strict diet: one small, midday meal, eaten at breaks during the orchestra’s rehearsals; this was complemented with drugstore vitamins.
“Fasting allows one to conserve energy,” she would say.
Oliver’s diet matched hers: during the day he wandered disconsolately through the house, looking for something to supplement his spartan regimen. One day, desperate, he flung himself at the refrigerator and managed to open it. Punishment was swift in coming; from then on, the holy citadel was put under lock and key. This hardly seemed necessary, as it was by and large empty.
Oliver was very handsome and intelligent—and, naturally, very thin. In China, it was rare to keep a dog as a pet. My first real experience with dogs was with Brown in Los Angeles, and it had been an unhappy one. At first, I was wary of Oliver, but later I got to know and appreciate him. I admired his loyalty, especially considering his draconian diet. Every night when we came home, he would greet Dominique first. But this was to be expected: Oliver barked in excitement as soon as he saw her, though not at me.
I didn’t dare mention anything to Dominique, but I was also hungry. And neither Oliver nor I had the means to purchase vitamins. One day, I confided in Gabriel Chodos.
“This is the first time I’ve had a student who was starving to death,” he chuckled. “You have to bring this up with her! Here in the US, we’re pretty straightforward. When something’s amiss, we speak up.”
In China, this wasn’t the case: one never asked for anything. Instead, you waited for others to realize what was happening.
That night, when I returned home, I screwed up my courage:
“Dominique, for the last few days I’ve been afraid to mention anything, but the truth is—I’m hungry.”
“Why didn’t you say something earlier? I’ll go shopping immediately!”
She quickly returned.
“Here you go,” she stated confidently. “This should do the trick.”
She handed me a loaf of whole-wheat bread. When she went upstairs to practice, I seized the loaf and wolfed it down immediately. The following morning, when I came down to breakfast, I found Dominique greatly concerned:
“Is it really true—did you eat the whole loaf?”
I was so abashed I couldn’t speak. She continued:
“You don’t know it, but you’re going to make yourself sick. Then you’ll have to go to the doctor, and that costs a fortune, even if you have health insurance. I’m happy to buy bread, but you really shouldn’t eat more than two slices a day.”
That same day, a rumor began to make the rounds among the musicians at the BSO: contrary to popular belief, Chinese people don’t like rice—they much prefer whole-wheat bread.
As for me, I made my way to church. There, at least, there was always something to nibble on after the service.
At church I made the acquaintance of a disabled person who was looking for a home-care assistant. It paid twenty-five dollars a week—with that kind of money, I could eat my fill! That same evening, I told Dominique about my plans to change apartments.
“I can give you thirty dollars a week, if you like. A
ll you have to do is straighten things up a bit.”
I was terribly embarrassed, and I blurted out:
“Fifteen dollars is fine, really.”
And indeed, fifteen dollars was enough for a week’s groceries. I bought eggs, rice, and carrots—which I shared with poor Oliver. It was more than enough, especially since my housekeeping skills at times left something to be desired.
One day, when her daughter was spending a couple of days at home, I heard Dominique say in a raised voice:
“My blouse! Xiao-Mei, what have you done? You’ve scorched my blouse—what can I wear for the concert?” She added, “You’re going to have to reimburse me.”
It was indeed my mistake; I had left the iron on the blouse too long. But her daughter came to my rescue:
“Mother, that’s not fair! You’re the one who should be apologizing to Xiao-Mei. You don’t understand a thing; can’t you see what you are putting her through?”
Dominique froze. The young woman continued in the same vein while I absented myself. A good half hour later, from my room, I heard Dominique’s daughter shout:
“If that’s the way it’s going to be, I’m leaving! And don’t expect me to ever come back!”
There was the sound of the door slamming shut. And then silence. I ventured downstairs and found Dominique standing in the middle of the living room, distraught.
“I’m sorry about what happened earlier; my daughter was right. Let me tell you a story: when I was young, I left home because I wanted my father to hand over his business to the employees, and he refused.”
I didn’t answer, but I knew what she was trying to say. When one is young, one is always too hard on one’s parents—often due to some kind of idealism.
When Dominique had guests, she sometimes asked me to cook. The first time was a dinner she was giving in honor of a string quartet. She hinted at the possibility that they might invite me to one of their concerts; this was at a time in my life when a concert ticket was a real luxury. I threw myself into preparing a delicious meal, and I even served it. They seemed to enjoy it. At the end of the night, I told them that I was a musician, and I screwed up my courage to ask them if I could attend one of their concerts. The answer was categorical:
“If you want to come, you’ll need to buy a ticket.”
Luckily, not all dinners were like that. One time, Dominique had two friends over for the evening. They were a well-to-do older couple who lived outside of Boston, where they had established a school for disadvantaged children. I absorbed everything they said, captivated by their story; then I told them about growing up in China, and about those ten dark years when we were denied access to education. I explained to them how terrible that void was for my generation. I had to stop in the middle of my story—overwhelmed by painful memories that their account had brought up in me. Finally, I shared with them my vision of one day founding a school in China. They listened attentively. Two days later, I received a letter from them. If one day you decide to open your school, they wrote, we are prepared to give you all the support you need.
My fifteen dollars a week hadn’t solved all my problems, however. As it turned out, the scholarship I received from the New England Conservatory covered my tuition for the first semester, but it would be reduced by half for the second. I had to find some kind of real work, not just so I would be able to continue my studies, but also so I could live a bit.
In the US, everything, big and small, costs money. At the Conservatory, I had to pay, of course, for my piano lessons, and sometimes for carpooling. I also needed money for the students who assisted me in putting my assignments into correct English. My culture and my upbringing had led me to scorn money, and I felt embarrassed even taking money for the various minor tasks I did—this seemed like another world. At the same time, I understood: it was expensive to study at the Conservatory, and not every student received help from his or her family. They worked hard during the summer to earn enough to live on for the rest of the year. But that didn’t prevent me from feeling ill at ease, like everyone does when they are thrust into an entirely new situation. In both the US and China, people had an unhealthy relationship to money. Either end of the spectrum is excessive.
The only solution to my problem was to get a job working as a waitress in a Chinese restaurant.
My waiting career began in a very luxurious restaurant, but it was short-lived. I received a first warning for arriving late to work. But the final straw came when I was serving a distinguished older Bostonian couple who were particularly put out by my accent. I was unable to stop myself from asking them if they wanted soap instead of soup, and this didn’t go over well. The management had had enough; I was fired on the spot.
Other restaurant owners were more insightful: they immediately saw that my English wasn’t strong enough, and they declined to hire me. One by one, I made the rounds of every Chinese restaurant in Boston, until I found work at a place in the red light district. There, at least, my English pronunciation was not a handicap. Before then, I had never laid eyes on either a prostitute or a sex shop, but this was quickly corrected! In that part of town, that’s all there was, with drug addicts added to the mix.
The first few days weren’t so bad. The prostitutes were generous customers; when they had had a good night, they left wonderfully large tips. And I feasted on leftovers. Some of the regulars were professional fishermen, and they scrupulously respected the old tradition according to which it was bad luck to eat the side of the fish that has touched the deck of a boat. They had a nickname for me: “the starving Chinese girl.”
But the work was hard. I was on my feet for hours, and as the evening wore on, my feet would swell up—so much so that I had to buy a pair of shoes three sizes too large so I’d be comfortable at my shift’s end. Drug addicts and drunks who were regulars never failed to try to grab and make fun of me, or they would leave without paying. Late in the evening, around eleven o’clock, I would begin to worry. I thought about the distance that separated me from the nearest subway station; it cut through the worst section of the red light district. The first few days, I ran at breakneck speed. Then I told myself: If you run, you’ll show that you are afraid. I forced myself to conquer my instincts, and I walked slowly, avoiding anyone’s gaze. One night around midnight, as I was leaving the restaurant, I had the feeling I was being followed. I began to walk faster and glanced behind me: three men were on my heels. I couldn’t help it—I broke into a run. But I could hear them: they were running, too. What could I do? I prayed. It didn’t matter to whom—Jesus in this case. And this time, he answered:
“You’re safe. Nothing will happen to you,” he said in my ear.
He was right: I made it to the station. At last! Just in time for the last train. I collapsed into my seat. As I was catching my breath and pulling myself back together, I thought about the life I was leading. I was aware that things couldn’t go on like this much longer. I had less and less desire to play the piano. My Bach and Beethoven scores smelled like soy sauce. If I didn’t stop working there, I’d never find the proper style to play the music that I loved.
A few days later, a knife fight broke out in the kitchen: one of the two cooks’ head was cut open, and there was blood everywhere. Enough was enough. The next day, I called my employers and told them I was quitting and that they should find another waitress. Once the feeling of relief subsided, however, I had to start looking for another job.
This time, I found work as an usher at the Boston Symphony Orchestra. This seemed nothing short of a miracle, except that I couldn’t attend the concerts: as soon as the music began, I was to leave the hall. It was only at the end, during the encore, that I was able to slip back in as the first audience members were leaving.
I learned one day that Vladimir Horowitz was going to perform. This time, I couldn’t make do with just the encore—the mere mention of his name sent chills down my spine. As soon as the box office opened, I bought myself a ticket for thirty dollars. I would gla
dly have paid three hundred! As the concert approached, my excitement grew. Suddenly, a few days before, I learned that I had to take a piano exam on the afternoon of the concert. I knew that students were called in alphabetical order for tests: this was very bad news. I decided to risk everything: the exam had not yet started, so I went and knocked on the door of the test room. The jury looked at me, astonished:
“It’s not your turn. We’ll call you when the time comes, but it probably won’t be until the end of the afternoon.”
“Please listen to me. I’ve spent all of my money on a ticket for the Horowitz concert tonight. I can’t play later, I have to go hear him.”
Sometimes it pays to be bold. Not only did the president of the jury, amused, let me play first, but I got the highest score in the entire Conservatory—which, on that occasion, had nothing to do with my playing! As for Horowitz, I was disappointed. But I must confess that I was on cloud nine that night, and I probably would have been critical of any other pianist on the planet.
It was around this time that Dominique decided my English was really becoming unbearable. She was at her wits’ end with the chaos I created mixing up cleaning products. Gabriel Chodos felt the same way—he had to use a dictionary to give me lessons. And so, as summer approached, Dominique offered to pay for an intensive English course for me at one of the most exclusive establishments on the East Coast, the School for International Training in Vermont.
I bid farewell to Oliver, my partner in crime, who began barking madly when he saw me leaving the house. I would never forget him: we had been hungry together.
19
An Act of Love
I came here a stranger,
As a stranger I depart.
(Franz Schubert, Winterreise,
set to poems by Wilhelm Müller)
The Secret Piano: From Mao's Labor Camps to Bach's Goldberg Variations Page 16
