Anna is a pianist with the New York Philharmonic. Following in the footsteps of her father, a world-class pianist, she joined the orchestra as its youngest member ever.
Yes, her playing is so outstanding that she swept prizes at the three major international competitions, and until now she has lived on praise, never once being faulted for technique.
Yet…
‘What is happening right now?’
She was flustered to be told, out of the blue, to play a piece by a young Asian man Eden had brought, but she decided to finish quickly. She was confident she could handle any score.
However, the flow of the sheet music shattered her sense of logic. The low register’s irregular meters kept shifting, and when the barrage continued, she finally lost her pace and missed a half beat. That alone bruised her pride, but then this man said:
“This piece must voice deprivation, but you are all playing like fat pigs.”
The young Asian man flung a biting criticism at the Philharmonic players and seized the baton.
Worse still, their chief Paul even stepped back as if to say, show us what you can do.
‘Why…?’
Who is this person that we must play to his words? She was dumbfounded, her pride crushed, yet Anna set her hands on the piano.
Fine. This time she would show him, the youth who had slighted the world-renowned New York Phil.
‘Does he think waving a baton any old way makes a conductor?’
Her resolve carried a subtle hint of scorn.
♪ ♪ ♪
The instant the young man gave a light flick, the piece began with Anna’s solo. The hall filled with gloomy, oppressive harmonies that made any performer frown.
‘I will not slip this time.’
Keeping her eye on the baton, she played rhythmically, when—
Whoosh!
–the cue came for the other instruments. The young conductor swung, subduing the entire ensemble in one sweep.
Ah.
From that point on, Anna’s thought process began to stall.
“Whatever form of lack you carry, is it so hard to pour that lack into your playing?”
Again—
“Were you born so full and warm that you can play only like this? Is this your limit?”
And again—
“Think of yourselves as clowns who know only how to draw a bow and move fingers on the street.”
And yet again—
“Show the most wretched, dark depths of yourselves.”
With each cutting remark his baton cut the air,
bang, bang, bang-bang-bang,
and Anna, raking the keys, wished for one thing only.
‘Let me vomit out my insides.’
She was not alone. Since none could throw up inside the hall, they clung to consciousness and played like machines.
Meanwhile, watching from behind, Paul felt a strange surge of emotion.
“Here!”
Sweat dripping, the conductor missed not one modest part, driving the ensemble without pause.
“This is where your life changes!”
His face animated as if he himself were bowing and fingering beside them.
Paul could tell.
One run, two, three, with each repetition the orchestra’s performance clearly improved.
At last, the instant every player felt they were truly making one piece, the music ended.
Yet the hall was a scene of havoc.
“Urk—”
Someone ran out, hand over mouth.
Thud.
Someone collapsed clutching an instrument.
Sob, gasp…
Someone wiped uncontrollable tears.
Amid them, HS alone stepped down the stage calmly and handed back the baton.
“Thank you for letting me use this.”
Smiling, he asked, “Does this prove my ability?”
Paul nodded like a broken marionette. In his life he had faltered before someone exactly twice.
The first time was the day he witnessed the Vienna Philharmonic under the legendary Georg Solti, record holder for Grammy wins.
The second—
“So you will give us the session?”
“Yes… we will.”
—was now.
Georg is gone, but watching this young man conduct he seemed to overlap. Paul, before a talent that could devour an era, could only step back.
Truly, the curiosity he had felt for the youth now seemed paltry.
Session recording proceeded swiftly. Paul opened the Philharmonic’s private studio and, wielding his authority as principal conductor, stifled a few grumbling voices.
“Anna, howl a little more.”
“All right…”
The first day captured Anna’s crucial piano solo and the organ.
“Just like you played on the street that day, you know?”
The second day recorded the violin section led by concertmaster Eden, and thanks to him it went smoothly.
“Do not coast just because there is no solo part.”
Day three: violas and cellos.
“I told you many times, keep the brilliance in check.”
Day four: flutes and clarinets.
“Maintain the weight of the low register.”
Day five: bassoons, oboes, and contrabasses.
“You must turn the flow into joy in a single stroke.”
Day six: trumpets, timpani, and drums.
Finally, the harp left its lingering line, and the week-long recording seemed finished.
But it was only seemingly. Any part that felt lacking in the mix was summoned back, however many takes it took.
And even the farewell could not end with a warm good-bye.
“One last full-ensemble video, please.”
Players released small groans, yet their posture was straighter than ever.
Whoosh.
When Hyunseung’s baton carved a bold line overhead, every eye fixed on him.
The run-through began,
♪ ♪ ♪
and, perhaps because they had been driven to the edge all week, it ended perfectly in a single take.
Clap, clap, clap-clap, clap-clap-clap.
The musicians exchanged high-fives, clapping for the conductor. Watching, Paul also applauded sincerely.
They were all called prodigies on their instruments, yet they had grown complacent, content to replicate the familiar beneath the towering name of the New York Philharmonic.
Meeting Hyunseung, they felt the frame crack and their limits break.
Paul, seeing his players thus, felt satisfied.
All of this happened in only a week.
“HS, come visit the Phil again.”
“Call me Choi Jihyun.”
“Choi, Choi Jihyun? The pronunciation is so hard.”
“Forget the name HS.”
“Fine, Choi Jihyun! I will miss you.”
“Then come to Korea some time.”
Having grown attached so quickly, members chattered unwillingly to part.
Ahem.
At Paul’s clearing throat, they slipped back to their places.
“Thank you for everything.”
“My ears thank you as well.”
“Were the video files captured properly?”
“Of course, I will send them.”
Hyunseung handed over the baton he had come to like.
Perhaps it would be the last time he held one in this life.
‘I do feel a little regret …’
“By the way …”
Holding the baton, Paul asked cautiously,
“Would you consider becoming music director of the New York Phil?”
Hyunseung raised an eyebrow in surprise. He had expected the session, not a scout offer.
Certainly, it was flattering.
Yet his visit to the Philharmonic had been a kind of picnic. Having enjoyed it, he had to go home.
“I have had my fun, time to return.”
“I too enjoyed it immensely.”
They reached out and clasped hands.
“Let us meet again in collaboration.”
“Gladly, let us make that happen soon.”
Although they had not shared much talk or time, with one handshake they exchanged countless feelings.
“Even if not in collaboration.”
“Indeed, let’s do that.”
It had been a most rewarding outing.
These days, Manager Kim starts his mornings on NewTube, checking his fortune on a popular tarot channel.
Once, twice, what began as a light diversion hit so accurately that he almost believes it now.
“Now, today’s fortune …”
Scrolling the list, one title caught his eye:
“Will the person who left return?”
Thinking of Miyeon, who had left him long ago, he clicked with lingering hope.
‘If she comes back, I can do better …’
Among five cards laid out, he chose the fourth in his mind and skipped ahead to its reading.
“To those who chose the fourth card while thinking of a parted love,”
The card flipped.
“This is a one-hundred-percent reunion card. The one who left you has merely gone on a brief picnic, letting the gentle breeze carry them away.”
The calm female voice sounded like Miyeon’s, surely an illusion.
“Wait patiently, and they will return to you first.”
Nodding like a devout believer, Kim murmured, “I trust, I trust …”
Feeling cheered, he rose to get ready for work when his phone rang repeatedly.
Buzz, buzz, buzzing—
“That kid, goes to New York and never calls …”
Seeing the preview tagged “Golden Child,” he chuckled.
“Finished the picnic, just landed at Incheon Airport.
Heading straight to the studio.
Couldn’t buy a present in the rush.
You’ll still get me a venti, right?”
So after nine days, the purpose of contact seemed to be coffee.
“Does he think I’m a venti shuttle…”
He pouted, then paused.
“Picnic …?”
He replayed the reading he had watched.
“One-hundred-percent reunion card. The one who left you has only gone on a brief picnic.”
Could the one returning be Hyunseung rather than Miyeon? Either way, someone came back.
Thank goodness indeed.
“Time to go buy Golden Child his venti.”
He dashed off to work after sending a reply:
[You are the present to me ^^.]
T/N: This chapter made me go back to the manhwa to see if they covered the intense orchestra trial— but it was totally skipped (chapter 51). The manhwa portrayed it as a challenge – all pink with glitters. The piece being HS’s experience of two lives was darker but with absolution in the end. The physical response from the members shows how deep and dark this piece was. Maybe they just weren’t used to HS’s verbal motivation. Hah!
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