Pen and Paper Translations

When he was very young, Vincent was once asked by his parents what he wanted as a birthday present, and he answered that he wanted to see a performance by the “New York Phil.”

At that time, he was so young that he did not know how expensive and hard to get tickets to the “New York Phil” were.

It was just something he said because he wanted to hear, in person, the performance of the pianist he liked most at the time.

His parents probably had quite a hard, hard time getting the tickets.

And so the first and last “New York Phil” performance he barely managed to see struck young Vincent with quite a shock.

Right. An orchestra heard live was on a completely different level from what came through earphones.

In the face of the majestic performance that overwhelmed the hall, Vincent could not close his mouth for even a moment.

His mouth went dry, and the shiver of that day, when it was hard to swallow his saliva, led Vincent onto the path of music.

But….

The New York Phil spread out before his eyes now was collapsing without resistance.

“No, this is because we had too little preparation time.”

“Enough with the excuses.”

“Is it not too much to ask us to perfectly learn and perform a score like this in two days?”

The pianist representing the New York Phil offered an excuse that was not an excuse in front of HS’s relentless baton.

“Could we maybe take a short break?”

It was not just the pianist’s story. The violinist, hair soaked with sweat, swept it back and pleaded.

However, HS firmly shook his head.

“One last time, just once more.”

At those words, an unknown fear fell over the musicians’ pupils. Still, they were professionals. In this world where it is hard to survive, they were the ones who had clawed their way up and endured.

They each took up their bows, set reddened fingers on the strings, and again assumed a playing posture.

─ ♬ ♬ ♬

As the run-throughs went on, Vincent felt the ensemble of the New York Phil improving, and there was something that felt newly admirable.

Namely, the figure of HS standing boldly at their front with the baton in his hand.

It was already shocking enough that in just a few days the piece itself had been changed.

He could not believe that someone who was merely a composer possessed the ability to control and command the New York Phil with a baton.

No…

A genius like that, and he had never once heard the name until now?

Presently, when HS’s baton shot high into the air, the performance driving to its peak, and then stopped with a “tak,”

“U-urk!”

From somewhere came the sound of retching, along with a clatter of someone dashing outside.

Right. The violinist who, before the rehearsal started, had said to please get it over with quickly while on an empty stomach, ran out of the hall with a hand clapped over the mouth.

Because stomach acid surged due to the consecutive rehearsals and the performances pushed at high intensity.

“Such a fuss again.”

By contrast, HS’s face was composed, with only a little sweat beading on his forehead.

‘What on earth is that gay bastard’s real identity?’

More than being astonished at how much richer his own song had become, Vincent was increasingly astonished at HS.

Just then, HS set down the baton and added a note to the players.

“We will rest exactly 30 minutes, then go straight into recording.”

At that, grumbling rose from the hall, saying that it made no sense.

“Thirty minutes…”

Even Vincent, who was not playing himself, muttered that it was a bit much.

Just from the shape of the score in his hand, this was not the sort of score one could perfectly perform after a single day.

Of course.

‘If it is the New York Phil, it might be a different story.’

As if he knew he was being too demanding, HS, looking rather apologetic, continued.

“I am sorry, but I do not have any time to spare.”

Then Paul, who had been standing back with hands folded behind him, cut in.

“Then how about we give them an hour, both as break time and as self-practice time?”

At that suggestion, HS seemed to hesitate, saying, “An hour….”

“Yes, let us do that.” he answered briefly. At that answer the members shouted, “Heck yeah!” like people who had secured a huge reward.

This is totally…

The New York Phil is being kneaded in HS’s hands, right? The New York Phil, called the most prestigious among existing orchestras. How did it end up being swayed by such a young Asian man?

That question could be answered once recording began.

“Here you have to grip tight as if holding your breath.”

“You have to stretch the breath as long as possible and line up together.”

“The strength is leaving your hands. If you do this, the sound goes thin.”

HS’s ability shone even more once the recording proceeded separately by instrument.

It could look like vague nitpicking, but there was no more certain answer sheet than this.

Even to a layperson’s ear, the sound became noticeably better.

Moreover, HS kept him in the studio the whole time.

The probable meaning: absorb their performance naturally as you listen, and blend it into the singing.

‘That gay guy is more of a deal than he looks.’

Forcing his sleepy eyes open, Vincent stayed in the studio as the sun sank, night fell, and the early dawn came.

Until the final ensemble recording was done.

“Thank you for your hard work.”

At HS’s one sentence, they plopped down as if fainting or collapsed over their instruments.

Even Paul, who had maintained a kind smile, looked clearly exhausted.

“This time too, f-fantastic….”

Forcing up the corners of his mouth, Paul continued.

“By the way, when will you do our music director part, even just once?”

“I will definitely do it next time. Right now, it is another instrument performance… what the… Were you still here?”

HS cut off mid-sentence seeing him sitting at the back.

No way.

Did he not know he was here?

“I was here the whole time.”

“You could have left; what were you waiting for?”

Did he really forget his existence? Then does that mean there was never any intention or design to have him stay on purpose in the first place?

‘Damn!’

For a moment his temper flared, but he decided to endure it. Still, hearing the New York Phil perform in real time had been quite a good experience.

“Vincent.”

Then HS casually called out to him. When he raised his head, HS was standing at the center of the rostrum with the lights pouring down, looking down at him.

For some reason, at that sight, Vincent felt an inexplicable pressure.

As if the distance between them was letting him know that it was the difference in skill.

Presently, HS walked slowly to the edge of the podium.

“Since we are here anyway….”

On the face shadowed in backlight, a wicked smile appeared.

“Let us finish it all off right now.”

At those words, Vincent could not help recalling the violinist who had run out earlier with a hand over the mouth.

---

Austin received a call from Andrew, hurriedly wrapped up his schedule, and headed to the building.

It was because he had been told that Vincent’s recording had been going on since dawn until now.

Is it for real?

He wanted to check with his own eyes. The Vincent he knew had never once gone over an hour in recording.

No.

It would be more accurate to say that no producer had ever dragged a recording with Vincent for over an hour.

But…

To hear that it had already gone well past half a day, how could he not be surprised?

He had never heard such a thing even from the experienced Sarah Stewart.

Step, step.

What kind of directing was going on that they could keep a singer like Vincent for over half a day?

Truly, HS was always a figure who went beyond his predictions.

Creeeak.

When Austin carefully opened the studio door, an enormous sound slammed into his ears.

Right. It was literally an enormous sound. Before the majestic sound from the many instruments, Austin’s body unconsciously hunched in on itself.

“Shh.”

Sensing someone’s presence at that moment, HS shot him a glance and brought his index finger to his lips as if to say be quiet. At that one small gesture, Austin froze solid like ice.

It felt like he had become someone who had intruded on a time that absolutely must not be disturbed.

“….”

In the end, Austin had to stand there like a mouse, silent.

“Why did you come?”

Until HS finished one take and spoke to him first.

“I wondered if the recording was going well…”

“As you can see, it is going well.”

“Uh, well, it, it seems that way….”

Vincent’s face viewed through the booth window looked anything but.

Like a prisoner locked in solitary, a gloomy cast had fallen over his face.

Gulp.

It might sound strange, but looking at Vincent like that, a sense of expectation crawled up Austin’s spine.

From the moment he first met Vincent, he had never thought of the words “growth” or “hardship” when he looked at him.

Yet now those two words, which seemed least likely to fit Vincent’s cheeks, looked as if they were written there.

“Pretend I am not here and keep going.”

Austin wanted to see it properly once more. Vincent’s hardship and the growth that would follow.

But HS answered as if he had no intention of doing that.

“You are here, so how can I pretend you are not.”

“Huh? Just, keep doing it as you were….”

“Even so, having the label head here is a bit much.”

“Ah, th-then I will step aside.”

“Just do not make your presence felt and stay there.”

Do not make his presence felt and stay there… At that point, was it not practically telling him not to even breathe?

“Uh, uh… thank you.”

Still, Austin wanted to hear it properly once more, even that would be fine.

For the accompaniment he had heard a bit of already was good enough to seize the ear.

More than anything, he wondered how it would be when blended with Vincent’s voice.

Presently.

When HS again signaled with his hand that recording would begin, Vincent once more took his place before the standing mic with a face dried tight.

It looked rather pitiful, but what could he do?

This was not a job the company had pushed him into.

It was a project Vincent had willingly stepped forward to do.

Soon the rapturous melody pouring from the speakers seized Austin’s ears.

─ ♬ ♬ ♬

How did he make such a beautiful melody out of chords?

No. Wait a second, this does not sound like something printed in chords.

Step, step.

Killing his footsteps, Austin slowly moved toward the central control booth side. Though getting closer would not make it easier to hear, he wanted to hear from a closer distance.

‘No matter how I think…’

Narrowing his eyes, Austin focused on the accompaniment.

‘It sounds like it was recorded by playing it directly?’

In the end, curiosity peaked, and Austin, forgetting the fact he should not make his presence felt, grabbed HS by the shoulder.

“Hey.”

HS, with one ear covered by a headset, scowled hard and answered.

“What is it?”

“I have one question.”

“What is it?”

“Was this accompaniment played directly? Did you do all of it?”

“No way.”

“Then…”

Then, as if it were no big deal, HS casually gave an answer.

“The New York Philharmonic.”

“The New York Philharmonic?”

For an instant, the song “out of sea” flashed across Austin’s mind. Yes, the song the New York Philharmonic had featured on.

A prestigious, high-nosed New York Phil had featured on a Korean composer’s song, so he had wondered what sort of composer it was.

But, because he had gotten absorbed with HS, he had not looked up anything afterward; the song “out of sea,” made by the composer “Choi Jihyun,” suddenly came to mind.

Come to think of it, at first they had looked for Choi Jihyun too, but since there seemed to be no reply from Choi Jihyun’s side, could it be….

Surely they were not the same person?

While Austin told himself no, there was no reason for that, his intuition kept flashing oddly.

Finally, cautiously, he began, “By any chance, Choi Jihyun….”

“How did you know?”

HS started slightly, then asked back.

“J-just, somehow….”

Caught off guard instead, Austin let his words trail off vaguely.

That the two composers he had marked and searched for were actually the same person—surprising, yet somehow it felt like the obvious answer too.

At that moment, HS suddenly switched off the MR that had been flowing smoothly.

“Ah, let us do this.”

As if something had occurred to him, he snapped his fingers and added,

“When we distribute Vincent’s track this time, list the composer’s name very clearly in Korean as ‘Choi Jihyun.’”

For some reason, that look made him seem as mischievous as Austin’s five-year-old son.