by Gian Bordin
"You did it again, Yuen-mong. This will be a scandal."
"Apparently wholeheartedly approved by a lot of the audience," she replied.
As they walked out of the building, she noticed many people smiling at her and felt their positive vibes. On the steps, Syd Twan caught up with them.
"Yuen-mong, may I invite you to a drink with soft, soothing music. My car is down there."
"That would be pleasant. Are you game, Atun?"
"Yes, I think I need something to recover from this double whammy. First the assault of that music and then your act of defying all etiquette."
"But young man that took courage, a courage that only Yuen-mong can muster," Syd replied, smiling at her.
"Atun is not mad at me, Syd. In fact, I know he is relieved not to have his ears tortured any further. And he is used to my erratic actions."
"You never act erratically. It’s always calculated, often for the greatest effect. Admit it."
"Yes, and it has worked so far."
Syd laughed out loud. "You know, Yuen-mong, I admire you greatly. You have already become a household name."
"Household name?"
"Everybody knows your name and face."
"I see."
"Is that all you say to that?"
"What else am I expected to say? Is it good or bad?"
"It can be either," remarked Atun, "and most people try to avoid becoming one."
"Then it cannot be helped anymore."
Both men laughed.
They spent a pleasant evening of conversation at the Lake Terrace Bar. She sensed both Syd’s heightened positive vibes as well as Atun’s partial withdrawal.
When they went to bed that night, she lay awake for a long time, images of Syd’s handsome features and positive vibes floating in her mind. She again wondered how it would be to make love to him.
Next day she made a deliberate effort to lift Atun’s spirits and let him know that he was her man.
* * *
She got a formal written reprimand from the Foundation Secretariat for having led the partial exodus in the middle of a concert that had greatly insulted one of the foremost composers of the galaxy, and she was reminded that all Foundation members were honor-bound to follow Foundation etiquette and rules.
Naturally, the news media gave it top coverage, both highly negative and cautiously positive, the latter pointing out that Mendel’s dissonance music had left the listening public well behind and really should be reserved to specially dedicated sessions for the small fringe avant-guard public capable of appreciating such music. It also reported that the second performance of the same concert the following night was poorly attended.
When she visited her grandfather the following Tuesday, he let her kneel for more than a minute before he asked her to rise, although her reading of his mind did not convey disapproval, but rather concern.
"Yuen-mong, I hope you realize that what you did at the concert showed deep disrespect for the composer and for those who attended and wanted to hear the music without a scandal interrupting it."
She did not respond, but lowered her head respectfully. She knew that there was some truth to it, but she also knew from her reading of the minds that night that many people only went because of the fame of the composer and to be seen by other Foundation members.
"Do you have nothing to say? … This is unlike you."
She sensed the sarcasm. "No, grandfather, what you say is correct. I will in the future be more discerning in my choice of concerts."
"You admit that what you did was not acceptable, but I also sense that you do not regret what you did."
"You are correct."
He looked at her pensively for a long time.
"Grandfather, I have been honest with you. Will you be honest with me?"
"Yes."
"Did you enjoy that concert or did your ears ring for a long time afterward?"
Again he remained silent for a while and then his eyes lit up in amusement. "To be perfectly honest, I did not enjoy it, and my ears kept ringing until I fell asleep."
"Thank you, grandfather." She paused briefly. "This was my first concert, but I am not new to music. My mother taught me how to play the flute, and we often sang together. And after her death, I played music with the dawn birds almost every day before the first rays of the sun warmed me. And it was music to uplift the spirits. There were disharmonies too, but even those were beautiful and brought joy when they resolved. The music we were assaulted with the other night had none of this. It was nothing but a chaotic sequence of shrieking discords, and he had the presumption of naming it ‘The dawn of the universe’. Was it not creating order from chaos; was there no glory, no hope … nothing uplifting in the dawn of the universe? The vultures on Aros do better."
"You are rather severe in your criticism."
"Then show me then where I went wrong?"
He chuckled. "Yuen-mong, if I were not supposed to be a respectable old man, I could not help agreeing with you wholeheartedly. But you do not make your life in the Foundation easy with your behavior."
"Is life supposed to be easy?"
"Do you always have the last word?"
She smiled and pinched her mouth closed with two fingers. For the first time, she heard him laugh heartily.
* * *
They attended the first of Anco Molena’s flute concerts. Again nobody questioned Atun’s presence, as if the Foundation had adopted a policy of not rising to her challenges. She made an effort to ignore the stares and mixed emotions of the people, although the composition of the audience was somewhat different. Moira Grant and her husband greeted them warmly and waved them over to take the two seats next to them. Yuen-mong enjoyed the concert fully, and she made up her mind to pick up her own playing again. She mentioned to Moira that she played the flute herself, and Moira asked her if she would like to get to know the artist.
"He’s a friend of ours and I’m sure he would be delighted to get to know you. You’re a bit of a celebrity too," she said with a smile.
They went backstage after the performance and after a while Moira managed to catch Anco Molena’s attention and introduced them.
"Moira told me of your courage to walk out of a Mendel concert," he said as he took her hand. "I must admit that I’m surprised that it hasn’t happened a long time ago."
"Anco, Yuen-mong plays the flute," said Moira eagerly.
"You had a flute on Aros? How extraordinary!"
"It was my mother’s. A silver Yamaha. May I?" He nodded and she picked up his flute. "It got damaged when they crashed and its sound was not as silky as yours."
"What kind of music did you play?"
"My mother liked the old baroque masters."
"Yuen-mong, why don’t you play your own morning song?" interjected Atun.
"You composed your own song?"
"It may be more accurate to say that I accompanied the dawn bird for his song."
"That sounds intriguing. Please, play. I would like to hear it."
With a shy smile she put the flute to her mouth, sounding the dissonance, resolving it, repeating it three times and then launched into the jubilant song of the dawn bird, improvising around it at the repeat.
After the last sound had faded away, the people in the small reception room applauded enthusiastically.
"Bravo, bravo. You must let me record this. This is the most joyful piece of new music I’ve heard in a long time." He went over to the recording device, set it going and then said: "Please, once more."
She repeated it, even more jubilantly, having found her rhythm again.
"Will you allow me to play your composition at my next concert?"
"It’s not mine, it’s the dawn birds’ on Aros. Anybody can play it."
"Oh no. This is an original composition and deserves copyright protection. I’ll see to that. You’ll earn royalties from it."
"Royalties? Please donate them to some good cause."
"That’s very gen
erous of you. I sponsor free tuition for young artists. Would that be the kind of cause you had in mind?"
"Yes, I would like that."
* * *
Three days later, Anco Molena gave the second concert. Yuen-mong would not have missed it for anything. To her relief, her presence did not cause a stir. She also noticed her grandfather with several other family members in his stall, and Syd also waved to her from his. The performance was mainly Mozart, including the concert in C-major for flute and harp. She recognized its central theme. Her mother had often played it and it triggered a deep longing in her. She let her tears flow unashamedly.
After the applause had subsided, Anco Molena announced that as an encore he would play a short original contemporary piece entitled ‘Song of the dawn bird.’ Her heart jumped to her throat, but she also became aware of the consternation in the audience. Moira Grant whispered: "That’s a first. He only plays the masters," and then added excitedly: "But this is your composition."
Yuen-mong closed her eyes when he sounded the first chords, letting the vision of dawn on Aros fill her mind. She had the urge to play along, to raise the tension of the song and its release. The tumultuous applause in the hall rudely brought her back to the present. Moira’s excited exclamations got drowned in the noise. It went on and on, until Anco Molena raised his hands, put his flute to his mouth again, waited a moment for complete silence, and then played it a second time. The applause only ended when it became clear that the artist would not reappear. The buzz of minds in the concert hall was almost more than Yuen-mong could bear.
They again went backstage with Moira Grant. Anco Molena was surrounded by a throng, including reporters. She decided that she would rather avoid getting dragged into another display, and they left quietly.
* * *
Next day, he called, begging her to meet him at his hotel. They went there, and he asked her to come up to his rooms. He showed her a contract for the release of the song as a single. It needed her signature as the composer.
"Yuen-mong, I saw that you had your eyes closed while I played. I hope that wasn’t a sign of disappointment."
"Oh no, to the contrary. I relived the waking of Aros."
"I must admit, I didn’t expect such an enthusiastic reception since people come to my concerts because I only play classical music. Have you composed any other pieces?"
She was just going to say no — somehow the song of greeting the night hunters, her song of calling the souls of her parents, was too sacred for her — when Atun said: "That beautiful tune of the night hunters —"
"No Atun!" she exclaimed at the same time.
"But it’s such a wonderful song, so full of longing and sadness."
"It’s my song to grieve my parents," she murmured.
"Oh love, I’m sorry." She felt his surge of regret and, had they been alone, she would have cried in his embrace.
Nobody said anything for a while.
"Yuen-mong, I understand your pain, but maybe it would help you to share this pain with others. Will you play it for me?"
He held out the flute for her. She took it, while he quickly switched on the recording device, and after breathing deeply several times to restore her calm, she played the haunting tune, shedding tears freely, and then improvised around it. When she finished and opened her eyes, she saw that Anco still had his closed. Atun looked at her pained and then held out a tissue for her. She took it and dried her tears, trying to smile.
After a while, Anco opened his eyes and said: "Yuen-mong, this is too beautiful a piece to be hidden. You must share this with us. Please, let me set it up as a series of variations around an original theme. It has the classical structure for that. Don’t say no, I beg you."
She struggled with herself, wanting to hang on to it, to keep it only for herself, while at the same time feeling the deep satisfaction of being able to share it with others. Would she ever again wait on her rock for the night hunters, the souls of her parents, to meet up with her? She heard herself saying: "You may."
"Thank you, Yuen-mong, thank you." He grabbed both her hands and squeezed them.
As they left the hotel lobby, she heard the first chords of the song of the dawn bird over the hotel sound system and at the same time felt the searching mind of the man trailing them like a shadow. The day before he had followed them to the shuttle manufacturer. How much had he been told?
17
There was not much to do for them but wait. Yuen-mong judged that Anouk had reached a level of empathic skills that would be sufficient for the task. The next one was to get her to do self-hypnoses. So both of them took instruction from a hypnosis teacher. They did not give their real names, although Yuen-mong realized that this might not help much, since the shadow would know the approximate time of their visits. They went early on purpose and cut the sessions short, for added confusion. When they arrived for their third time, the teacher was very upset, reporting that her consulting rooms had been burgled, although nothing of importance had been stolen, except for some records. Yuen-mong wondered if whoever was behind this also installed listening devices and from then on kept conversation to a minimum, disguising her deep alto by talking a pitch higher.
As usual, she visited her grandfather, but did not see any of her other relatives. He commented that he was pleased she had not sprung any other surprises on him these last two weeks.
Syd Twan invited her to a dinner to introduce her to some of his relatives who were eager to meet her. She only accepted when he extended — reluctantly she felt — the invitation also to Atun. It had become clear to her that Syd had taken an interest in her that was way beyond that either for a client or for the daughter of a former love, that it was directed at her personally. She had grown fond of him — not the steady, quiet, nurturing fondness she had for Atun, but something more volatile, more disquieting. She wondered whether this was love. He was often on her mind, and more than once she caught herself thinking of him while in love play with Atun and it bothered her. It felt as if she were cheating on Atun.
* * *
The third concert of the Anco Molena’s series, this one for flute quartets — Haydn and Mozart — saw them again at their usual seats next to Moira Grant and her husband. She liked the couple and felt she could be herself with them, although they had not yet met socially, and the two men seemed to have an engineering background in common.
At the end of the applause to the announced program, when everybody again expected an encore and Moira whispered that she hoped it to be the song of the dawn bird, Anco Molena raised his hands to ask for silence. "As part of this last concert, I will again depart from my tradition. I would like to share with you another new composition, by the same artist who composed the ‘Song of the dawn bird’. This one is entitled ‘Calling the souls of my parents’. It is a set of six variations arranged by me on the original theme."
Yuen-mong grabbed Atun’s hand and felt his support flow to her. The quartet first played the original theme, arranged for four instruments, followed by the six variations, the first one almost identical to the one she had played to Anco. They finished by repeating the original theme. She liked the performance, although she felt it lacked the depth of feeling that she had for it. For several seconds there was a complete hush in the Hall and then thundered the applause. People rose, shouting "Bravo, bravo’ and "Encore, encore."
"Is that yours too?" queried Moira into her ear.
Before she could answer, Anco Molena again asked for quiet.
"We are very fortunate to have the composer in our midst." He came down from the stage and walked to her row. "Yuen-mong, may I have the honor of presenting you?"
She saw no way of refusing and walked self-consciously in front of him to the stage, not quite knowing what she was supposed to do. He took her hand and held it up. "The composer of ‘Calling the soul of my parents’ and the ‘Song of the dawn bird’, Yuen-mong Shen."
Stunned silence followed. There was a lone "Boo, cripple", instantl
y followed by a single pair of hands clapping, and she saw that it was Mai standing in the Young stall. It was followed by three more sets of hands, Atun’s and the Grants’, and then the applause took on a momentum of its own. Anco Molena had to hold up his hands repeatedly to ask for silence. Finally, he handed a second flute to her, and gave the other musicians the signal to start. For a split second, panic gripped her, but then her survival instinct took over, and she began the original theme. Silence fell instantly. She put all her soul into it, closing her eyes, letting the haunting call reach out, and then went into her own improvisation, aptly supported by Anco Molena and the other three musicians. When she went into her second improvisation, only Anco kept up with her, but the quartet was back in force for the repetition of the original theme.
This time the applause came full strength the instant she finished. She handed the flute back to Anco and without a look at the audience hurried back to her seat, taking Atun’s hand and sat down and so did he. She wanted to hide, feel his support. She did not want to be in this crowd with its dissonances of minds, but the crowd was the only place she could hide.
She was glad when Anco Molena and the musicians also left the stage without playing another encore. There was only one more ordeal left, walking the gauntlet of the people, who were still standing, waiting for her to precede them. She held firmly to Atun’s hand. Once outside the hall, she rushed out of the building, away from the people, but Syd Twan intercepted them.
"Yuen-mong, please let me celebrate you," he exclaimed, taking both her hands.
She withdrew them, trying to hold back the tears that had threatened her ever since she stood on the stage. "Not now, Syd, not now. Atun, please take me home." It sounded like a desperate cry.
He murmured; "Yes, love," and took her hand.
She let herself be undressed like a child and then clung to him as they lay in bed. For the first time in her life, she regretted something; she regretted having revealed her heart to these people. Only months later would she reconcile herself to it when Anco Molena told her that the royalties on the songs had surpassed the 100 million credit mark, invested in the Yuen-mong Shen Trust for young musicians.
