I think I must be the only pianist in the world who has gone to Brattleboro, Vermont—home to one of the world’s most famous music festivals—with the goal of learning English.
Brattleboro is associated with Marlboro Music, a very special institution that was founded after World War Two by a number of renowned European musicians, including the pianist Rudolf Serkin, the violinist Adolf Busch, and the flutist Marcel Moyse. Each year young musicians have the opportunity to mingle with celebrated artists during unforgettable master classes and chamber music sessions. Between daytime practice sessions and evening concerts, the atmosphere at the Marlboro Festival is entirely unique.
During the evening concerts, sitting in the last row, I noticed a tall, quiet, somewhat bald gentleman wearing thin-framed, round glasses. He closed his eyes when he listened to the music.
“How can you not know who that is?” I was told when I asked about him. “That’s Rudolf Serkin. Come tomorrow night; he’s going to play a Haydn trio.”
Rudolf Serkin, the legendary pianist, was listening to his younger colleagues as if they were his teachers. When I returned the next night, the musician was on stage, playing Haydn with the playfulness of a child and the demeanor of a man who had lived through everything. I’d never heard anything like it. I attended his master classes, went to his concerts, listened to his recordings. This man embodied what I value most: integrity and humility before music. I observed him discuss the Hammerklavier and Opus 111:
“You are cheating Beethoven,” he said to a student who had altered a difficult passage to make it easier to play. “But you are also cheating yourself—and God!”
I was astounded by how he brought the great Beethovenian form to life from the inside, infusing it with a fire and an emotion that I had never heard before—musical architecture combined with passion. He forbade any changes in Beethoven’s scores to make them easier to perform. I set myself the goal of studying with Serkin, but I didn’t dare approach him. My friends encouraged me:
“You’re mistaken; he never refuses to listen to anyone. What he doesn’t like are pianists who are affected. He listens to them politely, like all the rest, but then lets them know, with a big smile, that it won’t go any further. You don’t have a thing to worry about.”
The more I was told how kind and generous Rudolf Serkin was, the less I wanted to impose on him. The summer ended, and I still hadn’t gotten up the courage to approach him.
When I returned from Marlboro, Gabriel Chodos found that my playing had undergone a transformation. How could it have changed so much in so short a time? The only official courses I had taken were in English, but something had “clicked” for me at Marlboro. By listening to Rudolf Serkin and those around him, I understood how I could add a decisive element to my playing—the pleasure of communicating, of “transmitting” the music.
The academic year passed without incident, and I was granted my diploma from the New England Conservatory. At the age of thirty-three, I had earned the diploma I should have received when I was twenty! Once again, I thought back to the lost years, to my stolen youth. I thought about the education that had been denied me, an education I had been forced to look for here, in far-flung Boston, my path fraught with obstacles and humiliations. But finally, with this diploma, I had cleared another hurdle. Had Jesus heard my prayers? I couldn’t be sure, but I thanked him with all my heart, just in case.
The first few days of summer in Boston were beautiful. Squirrels scampered in crowded parks. I was strolling through the city’s streets, when suddenly I thought I should buy myself a present as a reward for my efforts. There was something that I had always dreamed of having, but I had been denied it when I was at the right age. Afterwards, I never purchased one because they were always too expensive—compared to a bag of rice or a pound of carrots. A friend sent me to a discount store.
“You can find one there for four dollars,” she told me.
I decided that the occasion of receiving my degree was worth at least four dollars. At the discount store in question, I did indeed find what I was looking for, and wonderful ones at that. I looked at them for a long time. Then I chose one.
The first doll of my life.
With my diploma in hand, I would finally be able to earn a living from my real profession. In Brattleboro, my reputation as a pianist had been established during the summer, when I had given a benefit concert for a student who had been diagnosed with cancer, and whose family didn’t have the means to pay for treatment. Catherine, the director of the Brattleboro Music Center, was looking for an instructor and asked if I was interested. My first teaching assignment—of course I was interested! It was settled.
To help me with expenses, Catherine offered to put me up at her house. The little room was in the basement; it was dark and damp, but it was free. And Catherine had a beautiful grand piano that I could use to practice Bach and Liszt after work.
I quickly found that my salary wasn’t enough to live on. My wages were based on how many students took my courses, and I never earned more than eighty dollars a month.
It was back to baby-sitting.
Then I learned that the Christian Science Church was looking for a Sunday organist. I was offered thirty dollars for each service: how could I refuse? That meant, however, that I had to master the pedalboard, a technique with which I wasn’t familiar. My first few tries were traumatic for the congregation. Up in the organ loft, I was seized with stage fright: I dreaded every wrong note—the bass ones were particularly unbearable. I was afraid that the assembly would climb the stairs and strangle me, and for good reason! In a very gentle manner, the minister came to see me at the end of the service:
“We are going to find you an organ teacher.”
This turned out to be an elderly organist, from whom I learned the art of playing the pedals.
It was around this time that I heard that a restaurant in Brattleboro was looking for a pianist. I headed over. This was still far from my dream career, but at least I would have the chance to play. The two owners, Thom and Gregg, welcomed me with open arms. They offered me five dollars an hour, which meant I would have to work two evenings to earn as much as I did on Sundays at the church. I started that very night, with pieces that would become my standard repertoire—Mendelssohn, Chopin, and Schubert.
As soon as I began playing, a waiter placed an empty glass on the piano. Why did he do that? What was he going to put in it? But he didn’t fill it with anything, and the hours went by. Later, when the first customers got up and headed for the exit, they slipped a dollar or two in the glass as they passed the piano. They couldn’t possibly have known it, but for me, each bill was an insult. When the last customer had left, I went straight over to Thom and Gregg.
“This is impossible. I can’t possibly continue to work under these conditions.”
They were taken aback.
“Why bother to play if you don’t accept tips?”
The next day, the glass disappeared. Thom and Gregg had decided to pay me ten dollars an hour instead.
Spring arrived. One day, I found my room flooded: the snow had melted, and water had seeped into the house’s basement. My bed and all my belongings were afloat. I camped out at the music school, which ironically had its advantages: if I slept in a classroom, I could play the piano in the evening, undisturbed.
But it was just another in a series of temporary solutions. In a single year, I had changed my address no less than thirty-five times. My friends teased me about it:
“When you put Xiao-Mei’s name in your address book, leave three blank pages for the addresses.”
Shortly afterwards, I learned that I had been chosen for a permanent teaching position at the Brattleboro Music Center. It was a chance for me to get my green card, which is crucial for any foreigner who wants to work in the States on a long-term basis. As soon as I was hired for the job, I went to the local immigration office. The person behind the desk carefully inspected my file, then got up in order to check other documents.
There was something wrong. He left his office and I sat alone, waiting. He returned in a few minutes, which had seemed like an eternity.
“I’m sorry, but we’ve already reached our quota for Chinese immigrants for this year, and we can’t issue you a green card. Try again next year; you can apply as of January.”
Just as he was about to return my passport, he gave it one final glance.
“No, actually you can’t. Your visa expires in three days. You have no other choice; you’ll have to return to China.”
Return to China? And explain to my family that I spent more time in the US cleaning houses and doing dishes than playing the piano?
I hurried back to Catherine’s house to ask her advice. Straightaway, she called a senator, with whom she was acquainted through friends. The answer was unequivocal: nothing could be done in such a short period of time. She called a lawyer. The conversation went on for a while. I saw her nodding in agreement. She hung up the phone and turned to me:
“There’s only one solution. You’ll have to get married.”
I stared at her, stunned.
“That’s crazy!”
Under the circumstances, all I could do was accept the inevitable and go back to China. Before I did, I wanted to give a concert to thank everyone who had helped me. The next evening, the small hall where I was set to play was overflowing with people. News of my predicament had spread across town. At the end of the concert, my friends came to say good-bye, each one trying to think of a way to help me. Thom and Gregg were there as well, and they took me aside.
“Xiao-Mei, we’ve thought it over. If you want, you could marry one of us. It would be a marriage of convenience, but it would allow you to remain in the States. You just have to choose which one of us you prefer. Think it over and tell us what you want to do.”
It took me a long time to decide. I was caught in a bind: on the one hand, there was China, my anxiety about the future, and the shame of having to confess my failure to my family. On the other hand, there was a marriage that was a lie, a farce, and the risk of throwing in my lot with someone I barely knew. Finally, fear and shame won out. I went to my friends’ house and accepted their offer.
“All right, which one of us do you want to marry?”
What a question! How do you decide such a thing? My selection criteria were not those of other women. Since Gregg had a family name that I just couldn’t seem to pronounce, by process of elimination, I set my heart on Thom. Neither of them complained.
“All right then,” was all that Thom said. “Let’s start immediately. There isn’t a moment to lose.”
He was right; for our marriage to seem credible in the eyes of the immigration authorities, we had to pay attention to every detail. Our first concern was about the minister who would be performing the ceremony. The simplest thing to do was to explain the situation to him. As he listened to us carefully, he looked at me—what was he thinking? As we were leaving, he drew me aside for a few seconds:
“I know what you must be feeling. But rest assured. In fact, what you two are doing is an act in support of freedom.
For this reason, it will be the finest wedding I’ve ever presided over.”
But neither he nor Thom could allay my fears. The night before the ceremony, I panicked, and it was terrible. All of a sudden, I saw myself as I really was: alone in a little American town, far from my family and my country, without a piano, without a visa, and about to take the name of a man with whom I would never start a family—all in order to deceive the authorities of a country that had taken me in. Beijing, Zhangjiakou, Hong Kong, Los Angeles—everything passed before my eyes. I was thirty-three years old with only a diploma from the New England Conservatory to my name. I had only ever given a few informal concerts. None of this made sense. The next morning, when Thom came to get me, I barely had the courage to go with him.
But there was a surprise waiting for me at the church. Thom’s and Gregg’s families were there, along with countless friends and total strangers who had heard about my situation. They had all turned out to “lie on my behalf,” their arms full of gifts, which could be used as hard evidence of the legitimacy of our marriage. I was overwhelmed, but also galvanized.
We entered the church to the strains of Fauré’s Requiem, which I had chosen for the occasion. As we approached the nave, I looked at the faces of those present: their eyes were wet with tears. During the ceremony, the minister chose the most tactful and apt words. Then he gave us his blessing before we exited the church to the sound of In Paradisum, also from Fauré’s Requiem. The guests cried so much you’d have thought it was a funeral! Thankfully, the evening that followed was a great deal more festive, thanks to several excellent bottles of wine and a huge wedding cake in the shape of a grand piano.
The first step had been completed, but the biggest challenge still lay ahead: the Immigration and Naturalization Service interview. Our union, it must be said, had all the signs of a marriage of convenience. The lawyer who was advising us gave us advance warning: the test was really tough. We would be placed in separate rooms, and we would have to answer the same questions in an identical way. I couldn’t trip up on anything, including the brand of Thom’s shirts! I prepared for the test, learning “the man of my life’s” biography down to the last detail.
On the day of the interview, Thom was even more nervous than I was. I sensed that he, too, feared the worse. But he sailed through without a single error. In fact, it was on my side that we came close to disaster, and all because of one little mistake. The name of the Unitarian Church where we were married escaped me, and when the official asked me about it, I innocently told him that I had married Thom at the Vegetarian Church! But his interest in the Vegetarian Church didn’t go much further than that; he jotted down my answer without much of a reaction.
We had made it through! I would be able to get my green card, stay in the US, and start my career. Little by little, I came up for air. After all, weren’t marriages of convenience also a part of the story of human beings who sought to rescue one another? Was it really so crazy? In its own way, wasn’t it an act of love?
That was when I received a letter from my father.
20
The Power of Emptiness
Therefore, existence is what we have,
But non-existence is what we use.
(Laozi)
My mother and I exchanged letters every week, but my father had only written me once, a short time after my arrival in Los Angeles. I had been extremely touched by his letter. He told me that he regretted not having a son, but that, through what he had witnessed of my courage and my ability to withstand hardships—to him typically masculine qualities—it was as if he now indeed had one.
I wasn’t hurt by the silence that followed. I knew that my father considered all correspondence to be needless. One should never, ever leave a trace.
I was thus very surprised one day to find in my mailbox a letter in his handwriting.
Xiao-Mei,
Since the last time I wrote, I have not felt the need to share my news with you. I understand from your regular correspondence with your mother that everything is going well. I also understand what “everything going well” means: I imagine that your life can’t always be easy. I can’t completely know, here in Beijing, exactly what you are doing, but I have faith in you. I know you.
As for me, now that I am over sixty, I have begun to comprehend the secret of the Tao.
Thanks to a friend who remembered my knowledge of ancient languages, I have had the chance to take part in a research group. This group is responsible for editing texts from sacred Tibetan Buddhist books, the Da zang jing. As soon as I began reading these texts, I felt that I had finally discovered my life’s purpose. Until now, my life has been a disappointment. Although innocent, I’ve been subjected to many trials and humiliations.
Thanks to my work on these texts, I have understood many things. The need to rise above the day-to-day, to not become distracted by
worldly things and money, to not seek professional success or recognition. You must be yourself. And as one nears the secret of the Tao, one discovers the truth.
To reach it is part of one’s destiny. If you have upheld what is good during the course of your life, it will be given to you. If this does not occur, it is because you have not suffered enough and you must continue searching. But my intention is not to try and convince you. One day, I am sure that you, too, will be given the chance to experience this truth.
Please know that I don’t have any regrets and that I am now very contented.
Father.
I read the letter over a number of times, with a growing sense of confusion. The man who had written it bore little resemblance to the one I had known as a child—cold, strict, and often violent.
However, the more I read it, the more I sensed in it—over and above the mystery it represented for me personally—a gentle invitation. An invitation to discover, during my exile, the wisdom of the great Chinese philosophers. To seek the truth in their reflections by deepening my knowledge of their writings. From far away, from across the ocean, my father was taking me by the hand. I wanted to follow him, in order to be with him for a moment. And also to discover this sense of serenity. If my father, the most pessimistic, resigned, and depressive of men, could find this inner peace—to such an extent that he wanted to write to me about it—there was no reason why I couldn’t experience this grace as well.
From then on, I set aside time to meditate and to study the great seminal texts of Chinese philosophy. Little by little, without knowing it, I began to undergo a change. I experienced far more than a connection with my father, or a sense of reconciliation with someone whom I had hurt. I discovered that, in turn, I was calmer and more peaceful.
By constantly practicing, without casting about or forcing the matter, insight into life and how things worked emerged without my conscious awareness of it. This is the essence of Chinese philosophy: something that can be experienced without always needing to be explained. The Chinese path to understanding is quite different from that taken by Westerners. It is more intuitive, less strictly rational. The Chinese believe that many things do not need explanation because they are natural phenomena. Unlike their Western counterparts, who see understanding as a prerequisite to practice, Chinese people see practice as one way to achieve understanding. They are skeptical about any single-minded search for an ideal or a truth. The life of the great philosopher Shijiamoni offers a perfect example of this. For years, he sought the meaning of life, but in vain. One day, he renounced his quest, and the meaning of life appeared to him in all its clarity.
The Secret Piano: From Mao's Labor Camps to Bach's Goldberg Variations Page 17