The Forest of Wool and Steel

by Natsu Miyashita

  But the client had chosen to get it back to its original condition.

  ‘The idea of original sound is the issue. Isn’t it more important that a person’s memories are evoked, rather than the exact same effect created? The happy memories of when her daughter was little and played that piano.’

  I remained a little confused.

  ‘What that lady really wants is not a faithful reproduction of the way that piano sounded, but rather to bring back her memories. Either way, the original sound doesn’t exist any longer. So I decided it was best to bring out the tunefulness which that particular piano was originally designed to create. If a sweet sound floats into the air, then the memories will follow.’

  I didn’t know what to say, had no idea if that had been the right decision. What would I have done in his place? I would probably have kept strictly to what I’d been told to do and tried to recapture the original sound. But it struck me then that valuing that goal above all else might mean missing the opportunity to create a richer, fuller tone. The thought alone was painful to me.

  And that’s the crux of it: it’s very limiting and stressful to work solely within the scope of what the client thinks they are after. The true pleasures of working as a tuner lie beyond that, beyond the simple embodiment of the client’s own mental conception of how the piano should sound.

  ‘Those were wonderful hammers,’ said Mr Yanagi, waking up now with a yawn and appearing more cheerful.

  ‘I thought so too. They should have been harder, but they still had that feel of wool to them.’

  Hammers made from sheep’s wool, striking strings of steel. And that becomes music. Those white hammers that Mr Yanagi had pierced – small and old though they might be – fulfilled an extraordinary and wonderful purpose.

  ‘I heard that in one of the countries in the Middle East sheep are a symbol of wealth.’

  Mr Yanagi cradled his fingers behind his head. ‘That just means that the wealthy can afford to have lots of sheep, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Having been raised next to a sheep farm, a part of me thought of livestock purely in terms of monetary value. But what came to mind in that moment, thinking of sheep, was a scene of those serene animals in a green, open pasture, chewing lazily on their grass. Good sheep make for a good sound – to me that felt like a richness in itself. But there are people who picture wealth more in terms of a city packed with high-rise buildings.

  Kazune Is Extraordinary

  The twins would on occasion stop by the shop on their way home from school. Sometimes together, sometimes individually. They’d come and peruse sheet music, or piano books in our book corner.

  Ever since I’d messed up trying to tune their piano they seemed to feel closer to me. They’d stop by for no particular reason to say hello, chat about the piano or trivial things that had happened at school, then flash me a smile and leave, apologizing for having bothered me at work.

  Miss Kitagawa thought it adorable how the girls would always bob their heads at the same time in a little bow. ‘That’s one perk of being a tuner for a home with girls in the sixth form.’

  Actually Mr Yanagi was their tuner. I just tagged along. And besides, I was the one who’d botched the tuning.

  Today, unusually, I was called downstairs by the receptionist and found one of the twins awaiting me – I couldn’t tell which – a solemn look on her face. When she saw me she bowed.

  ‘Hello. Sorry to bother you at work.’

  ‘No problem.’

  It was Kazune. Kazune was the one who always looked this serious.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said suddenly, and bowed again. ‘I’m really sorry to always impose on you.’

  ‘No, it’s absolutely fine! No trouble at all. What’s up?’

  Kazune’s lips tightened. ‘I thought maybe I could talk to you about something, Mr Tomura. I’m sorry.’ Apologizing once more, she continued, ‘There’s a recital on soon.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Didn’t Yuni mention it?’

  Yuni had dropped by a few days earlier but hadn’t said anything.

  Kazune lowered her gaze when she saw me shake my head. ‘She’s always been like that. Nothing ever fazes her, and she never gets nervous before a recital. She thinks if she enjoys playing that’s enough, and it’s true that when she plays freely in that way, her performance is really wonderful. On days when she doesn’t feel like practising, she simply doesn’t. I could never do that. I end up practising whatever mood I’m in.’

  ‘That’s pretty extraordinary.’

  ‘Yup, that’s Yuni,’ she said, nodding.

  ‘Actually, I think you’re amazing, Kazune,’ I said, and I really meant it.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she shot back.

  Was practising something you should do in spite of yourself? I didn’t play, so I couldn’t say. But if you really did end up practising even when you weren’t in the mood, I’d call that pretty amazing.

  ‘I just like practising on the keyboard,’ she went on. ‘When a new piece turns out well, it makes me feel so good inside. And when I play at home my family and my piano teacher always praise me.’

  Kazune said this quite deadpan. It didn’t sound as though she was being arrogant. They praise me, but what does that matter? is how Kazune probably felt. And that was the right attitude. Garnering praise shouldn’t be the main goal when you play the piano.

  ‘But when it comes down to the actual recital, it’s always Yuni. She’s the one who gives a stellar performance – even though I sound better when I practise. In recitals or even in a small competition Yuni’s the one who always gets the rapturous applause.’

  I could understand that. Yuni’s playing was clear as a bell, and I always felt moved by it.

  It made me think about my brother, two years younger than me. Whenever we played our special chess game, shogi, at home I was better, but when we competed in contests in town he always beat me. It wasn’t as though he was holding back when we played at home. There are just people who are stronger in their play when it really counts, or who are consistently lucky in competitions.

  ‘Does that mean you make mistakes when you perform?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ Kazune made that point clear. ‘But Yuni takes it to another level. She completely sparkles in front of an audience. There’s a brilliance to her. When the time comes, she really shines, really captivates people.’

  ‘That’s OK, isn’t it? You can’t show what you’re really capable of in front of an audience, so you let Yuni take the prize. You play in your own way and for your own reasons. What’s wrong with that?’

  Kazune looked at me, wide-eyed. ‘You’re right.’ Her lips slowly curled up in a smile. ‘I don’t exactly fall apart when I play to an audience, so I shouldn’t worry about it, should I?’

  In actual fact, I remember resenting my own younger sibling. I envied him every time he snatched away the prize that I felt should have been mine, but I pretended not to care.

  ‘I’ve been wasting your time worrying about pointless stuff – like it’s all a question of luck or something you’re born with. I don’t want to lose sight of more important things. Sorry to have bothered you,’ Kazune said. She bowed twice to me and then left the shop with a small wave, the doorbell jangling behind her.

  I was left hoping that she wouldn’t end up feeling resentful towards Yuni. It’s a lot more painful to be jealous of someone than to be the object of jealousy.

  I was about to take the stairs up to the office when Mr Yanagi caught up with me. He was a little breathless and looked as though he’d just arrived.

  ‘Well, that was a surprise. Wasn’t that Kazune-chan?’

  He sounded in a good mood.

  ‘You can tell the twins apart, can’t you, Mr Yanagi?’

  Tuning case still in his hand, Mr Yanagi inclined his head, a questioning look on his face. ‘What do you mean, Tomura?’

  ‘Makes sense as you’ve been going to their house si
nce they were little.’

  ‘Tomura, how old do you think I am, anyway? When the twins were young, so was I.’

  ‘Oh!’

  There was a three- or four-year age difference between the twins and me, and I guessed there must be ten years at least between them and Mr Yanagi. I was wondering how old the twins had been when he first started tuning their piano, when he suddenly said, ‘Their uniforms are slightly different.’

  ‘Uniforms?’

  ‘Even if you can’t tell their faces apart, anybody can figure it out by looking at their uniforms.’ He began to sound impatient. ‘Are you telling me you haven’t noticed?’

  ‘Ah well – now that you mention it.’

  Mr Yanagi broke into a grin.

  Now that he’d said it, I realized their uniforms were indeed different. Kazune had told me once that they were attending different sixth-form colleges since Yuni had better grades.

  ‘No, it’s because all Kazune can think of is the piano,’ Yuni had said on another occasion, laughing. ‘Our grades are about the same, though I do better in maths. For me, once I’ve psyched out the first problem, then I feel I can do the next one too. But Kazune doesn’t feel excited about anything except the piano.’

  Identical twins don’t just look alike but should share all the same genes, so it’s hard to say where a small discrepancy might show. I suppose differences in whether they’re good with numbers or not, what school they attend and what sort of friends they make there might emerge over time. And in the way they play the piano, of course.

  ‘You give it your all with the twins, yet don’t spot that they wear different uniforms? What’s that about?’

  It wasn’t that I gave it my all. I just loved the way they played.

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing how the twins develop,’ he said finally.

  II

  Beginner’s Level at Best

  Close Your Eyes and Decide

  I was about to begin my second year with the company. No new employees had been hired, so as before I remained low down in the pecking order. Still, it was a relief. I had no idea how I’d cope if they hired a younger employee who was more talented than me. The fact was that I believed any new employee would be better than me. It still took a long time for me to get a piano in tune. More worryingly, although I could more or less get it in tune, I couldn’t go beyond that. I struggled desperately with the most critical aspect of tuning – deciding on timbre and tone.

  ‘Close your eyes and decide,’ Mr Yanagi advised me one day during one of our chats in the shop.

  I couldn’t get it. ‘Wait, you’re saying just go for it?’

  ‘No, that isn’t what I mean. Closing your eyes doesn’t mean you’re getting desperate.

  ‘For instance,’ he explained kindly, ‘a chef gets quite serious when it comes to tasting a dish. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and makes an immediate decision as to how it should taste. Tuners, too, need to be decisive about the sound or they’ll end up dithering.’

  I was writing this all down – Close your eyes – in my notebook. Mr Yanagi added quickly, ‘Some people don’t actually close their eyes. I don’t close mine.’

  ‘Then who does?’

  ‘I don’t know. By closing your eyes I just mean that you have to listen carefully and decide on a tone. It’s a kind of metaphor, I suppose.’

  Meta, I added in my notebook. Mr Yanagi used so many metaphors when he talked: cheese, wine and so on. If closing your eyes was yet another metaphor, then what was I supposed to take literally?

  Mr Yanagi stood up. He was scheduled to tune the pianos in a number of rural schools. It was a large area we had to cover; some jobs were two hours away by car. Since it was such a distance, he would often stop off at kindergartens and local community centres to tune their pianos along the way, too. It added up to a long and gruelling day.

  ‘I’ll be at a home appointment today,’ I said. ‘I’ll close my eyes and do my best.’

  ‘You know, some day I’m going to pass all the schools over to you, Tomura.’

  I wasn’t ready yet, but I looked forward to the day I could help at these places where children would be encountering a piano in the music room or gym for the first time.

  My schedule now involved tuning pianos in homes a few times a week. In cases where the piano hadn’t been tuned in years, or there seemed to be some problem with it, Mr Yanagi took the lead, and I just watched and learned. I wasn’t ready for that responsibility yet, and while I felt apologetic towards my older colleagues that I hadn’t made faster progress, frankly it was also a relief. There is nothing more pitiable than a piano tuned by an incompetent technician.

  I was just preparing to leave for a job when my phone extension rang.

  It was a call from Miss Kitagawa.

  ‘Your first appointment this morning – Mr Watanabe – needs to cancel. He wants to reschedule for next week at the same time.’

  ‘All right. That’ll work.’

  I hung up the phone and noted the appointment on my desk calendar, crossing out the one for today.

  ‘Was that a cancellation?’ Mr Yanagi was almost out of the door but turned around before leaving. ‘An appointment for this morning just cancelled?’

  Tunings are usually carried out just once a year. Normally a tuning for a home piano takes two hours and is by appointment only, but clients often change the appointment or fail to keep it. Perhaps they find it a burden to have someone come to their house and stay for two hours, which I can sort of understand. But changing an appointment so casually seemed proof at the time of how little some people really cared for their pianos, and the whole thing left me feeling quite deflated.

  All we need is a piano. The client doesn’t need to be by our side the whole time, and the ordinary household noises they might make – vacuuming or using the washing machine – don’t bother us in the least.

  ‘Some clients even think they can’t cook while we’re tuning,’ Mr Yanagi said.

  ‘Can’t cook? Why not?’

  ‘They’re convinced that the smell would interfere with our sense of hearing.’

  ‘I see.’ I could sort of picture that.

  ‘It’s best to let the client know in advance that they can carry on as usual, to make things a little easier for them. Truthfully, though, if their phone rings, that can mess with the hertz as we tune.’

  ‘Don’t they often also change their appointment because they haven’t cleaned the room yet?’ Miss Kitagawa had left her desk and come over to join us.

  ‘We don’t care if they clean up or not, we just want them to stop postponing their appointments, don’t we?!’

  Dirty rooms don’t bother us, although one home we’d visited the week before had so much stuff scattered all over the floor we had trouble finding a spot to lay down the panels and parts we’d removed. It was also a shock to discover how the clothes flung all over the floor absorbed the sound and completely altered the way the piano resonated.

  Mr Yanagi saw I was stuck for a response and laughed. ‘Tomura loves things to be all neat and tidy.’

  As we stood there chatting, Mr Itadori happened by, carrying a case in his arms.

  ‘Somebody cancelled on you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you have time, would you like to come along with me?’

  I couldn’t believe my ears, because Mr Itadori was scheduled to tune at a concert hall today.

  ‘Su–sure,’ I managed to stutter.

  ‘We’re leaving soon.’

  A German pianist – a virtuoso, a keyboard magician, people called him – was touring Japan. And I had heard that Mr Itadori was to tune the piano for the recital the following day. The pianist was giving only a handful of performances in Japan, and I had no idea why he’d give one here in this little northern town so far off the beaten track, although I was certainly looking forward to it. I’d be able to hear – live – the sound I’d listened to so many times on CD. It was the first time in my li
fe I’d ever bought a ticket to a concert.

  Hurriedly, I got my things together. I figured I wouldn’t need my tuning tools. But maybe I should bring them? No, they’d only get in the way. But wait – going empty-handed wasn’t good. Maybe I should take them, just in case? No, no, that’s no good either. Oh, maybe I should offer to carry Mr Itadori’s bag for him? And I’ll need a pen and pad to take notes.

  It seemed that Mr Akino, whom I hadn’t seen in a while and was now seated at the desk across from me, had said something. Without looking up he said, ‘Sounds like congratulations are in order.’

  His face didn’t appear stern at all, as it often was. He wore a gentle expression, the kind that convinced you that something auspicious had taken place, but his tone was as sharp as always.

  At first he’d been rather reserved in his dealings with me, perhaps because we’d had few opportunities to interact. As he got used to me, he relaxed and spoke his mind more freely. When he did so, his words struck me deeply, and I remembered them and carried them with me.

  Congratulations. That was right on the mark. All I could manage was to carry Mr Itadori’s bag, but I was awestruck simply at being able to accompany him on a tuning job.

  I had decided not to be fazed by it, though. That would be to waste the opportunity. And this was an amazing opportunity – to watch Mr Itadori tune a piano for a world-class pianist.

  I went over to the office whiteboard and wrote in the name of the concert hall in the column next to my name.

  ‘So why are you going, Tomura? What use will you be?’

  Mr Akino was scoffing now, and this took me by surprise. Everywhere you go there are unpleasant people who take pleasure in running roughshod over others’ feelings. Be it in a small village in the mountains, in a college in town, among our clients, even in our office, it makes no difference. I tried to convince myself that worrying about it wasn’t going to get me anywhere. But he did, after all, have a point. And because he was right, I had to respond.

  ‘In five years,’ I began, then corrected myself. ‘I’m sorry – in ten years. I’ll study hard so that ten years from now it’ll bear fruit.’