Chapter 95

095. The Largest Instrument (2)

"Are you here?"

As Yoon Tae-hwan opened the front door and came in, his wife approached him with a tense expression and asked.

With Yoon Tae-hwan's dazed look, she couldn't help but worry even more.

This challenge was their last chance, as much for him as for her.

Was the first practice not good?

Was it because he hadn't practiced for a while and his skills weren't up to par?

However, Yoon Tae-hwan remained silent, only worrying his wife.

"..., uh, are you okay? No pain anywhere?"

"I'm fine, really. How about you? How was the first practice?"

"Uh, well..."

"Why the expression? Was it bad?"

"No. Just... I still can't quite believe it."

"Huh?"

After a moment of hesitation, Yoon Tae-hwan continued.

"...It was much bigger than I thought."

"Wow, really? That's great! After all, it's a special New Year's performance by SJ. Besides, the composer is Han Seo-ho, the hope of Korean classical music."

"Exactly. He was already great, but he's even more impressive now."

"I want to go see the performance soon~."

"Let's take our parents."

"Sure. And my friends are coming too. The kids were really moved by your horn performance at our wedding. They want to see it again."

She smiled proudly and turned to say,

"Hurry up and take a shower. I made something delicious."

"I've been smelling it for a while. Is it bulgogi?"

"Correct! Oh, do you want me to pack a lunch for you? Are you going to practice tomorrow too?"

"The practice is the day after tomorrow, but I can come out freely and practice on the other days..."

"Then you should go. It's ridiculous to stay here, and there's no place to practice since the contract for the personal practice room is over."

Seeing Yoon Tae-hwan hesitate, his wife widened her eyes.

"Don't even think about looking for a job. Do it without regrets. Go every day. Try everything you want to do one last time, and if it doesn't work out, then you can look for a job. Loa has waited for 8 months, after all. Even if no one else is there, go and practice every day."

With her firm answer, Yoon Tae-hwan, who had been holding his breath, finally chuckled.

"..., there will be someone there."

"Really? Then I should pack a generous lunch! Is there anything the people you're practicing with can't eat?"

"Probably one person... can't eat spicy food."

"Hmm, a spicy food avoider~."

"Ha."

...He didn't mention that the person was a foreigner.

#

"I once visited a Korean restaurant in New York. There was a Korean among the members. I heard this is Korean home-style cooking. Is that right?"

Albert, using chopsticks awkwardly, picked up the bulgogi like noodles and asked, trembling. It looked like it might fall back onto the plate at any moment.

Meanwhile, Yoon Tae-hwan blinked at his question. The interpreter hadn't arrived yet, so I quietly relayed the message.

"He's asking if it's Korean home-style cooking."

"Ah, yes. Yes."

"The other dishes are also good and not spicy. The ones I had in New York were a bit spicy for me."

Relaying the message again, Yoon Tae-hwan suddenly shrugged. I wondered if there was a problem, but he seemed to be smiling, as if something had come to mind.

It's not funny that it's spicy.

I felt a warm feeling in my heart. Could it be that just being with Albert is this good?

"Hmm. I asked my wife to make it not spicy. I'm glad you like it."

Yoon Tae-hwan shared the bento he brought and the delivered food with the early-arriving musicians. By the time we finished eating and cleaning up, the number of musicians had doubled.

...The practice started immediately.

Although only about a third of the instruments were present, this allowed Albert to observe more closely. He even came down from the podium and walked around, making corrections on the spot.

Not only did he have a broad view of the music as a whole, but his deep understanding of the characteristics of each instrument allowed him to guide everything from the violin to the timpani without any shortcomings.

Meanwhile, the musicians receiving guidance listened intently to the interpreter, not wanting to miss a single word.

Albert's guidance was a first for them.

The musicians, who had been tense, gradually began to follow his steps.

...In this space.

For the performance that would take place in two weeks.

The orchestra was tuning up.

#

"Let's take a break and then continue."

Albert ran his hand through his hair and came down from the podium. He put his signature wooden baton in its case and walked to the piano, instead of the waiting room.

There, Han Seo-ho was sitting, scribbling something on the music stand.

Notes on the staff. He was writing a score.

"Are you composing?"

"Yes."

"Did you get an inspiration?"

"Got a 'good inspiration.'"

Han Seo-ho said it casually, but Albert was puzzled. Was it confidence? Or...

The thought led to a hollow laugh.

It was a strange thought, like a fantasy.

Inspiration usually comes, so he probably didn't mean it that way... It was just a thought that popped up.

"Can I watch?"

"Of course."

Han Seo-ho paid no attention to him and continued to write notes, using the piano as a desk.

Albert folded his arms and watched.

"..."

Without touching the keys, he poured out the melody in his head, drawing notes without hesitation.

Albert, who had been watching intently, realized that his initial thought that it was just a light sketch was wrong.

What he was drawing was a conductor's score, a full score.

Here, the instrument arrangement was being decided, and the direction for each instrument was being set.

Not just one melody, but the melodies of multiple instruments were being layered.

His hands, moving without a moment's hesitation, continued to draw countless notes.

It was an astonishing speed, as if he was transcribing an existing piece.

But what was even more astonishing was the result.

Albert, reading the score vertically, could roughly imagine what the music would sound like, as he was a veteran conductor.

Han Seo-ho filled the break time with his score. He did the same during the next break and the one after that.

...What exactly am I watching?

By the end, it looked like he had almost completed the full score.

During this time,

Han Seo-ho never touched the keys once.

...

As Albert entered his hotel room and put down his bag, his phone buzzed.

It was a call from the concertmaster, who was also on vacation.

-How are you doing?

A voice as sharp as a soldier's.

It sounded no different from usual, but it couldn't escape Albert's ears.

"Your voice sounds good. You said you were going to Europe, right?"

-Yes. I'm in Germany now. This morning, I visited Beethoven's birthplace and saw the piano that Thomas Broadwood gave to Beethoven.

"Wasn't that the piano Beethoven used last?"

-Yes. It was the piano he played when he was completely deaf. I also saw the first editions of the pieces he composed. It was moving to think that the pieces we have performed so many times were born on this staff paper. Although it was where Beethoven lived as a child, I imagined him composing in his later years.

"I also imagined that a lot after I started classical music. Beethoven, filling the staff paper with the memory of sound, and me watching him."

Any musician who loves Beethoven would have done the same.

Imagining, marveling, admiring, and performing. Even now, somewhere.

-...It must have been an incredible stroke of luck. It's impossible for us, unless a time machine is invented.

Albert laughed softly at the concertmaster's wistful words.

He sat in the hotel armchair and looked down at the night view of Seoul.

Looking at the city, which was brightly lit, he recalled the memories of just a few hours ago.

"..., but maybe someone 200 years from now will say the same thing. That it would have been a stroke of luck to be there when the piece was being composed."

-What do you mean...?

Albert moistened his already dry lips at the concertmaster's question.

"Maybe."

And, feeling a chill run up his spine, he said,

"I might have already seen such a moment."

#

"Seo-ho, are you here?"

Mom greeted me.

And for some reason, Dad was already home early, sitting next to Mom on the sofa.

"Phew, you're late. You must have worked hard. Wash your hands and come eat some tangerines."

...It's already past 12.

I must have been late.

I washed my hands, came out, and sat in front of the sofa.

I was still energetic just a moment ago.

I was proud and satisfied because I had practiced a lot today, the musicians' coordination had noticeably improved, and I had completed a piece inspired by a sudden inspiration.

"Ugh—."

"Are you tired?"

"A little."

I feel like throwing a tantrum for no reason.

I took a tangerine from the basket and peeled it.

Dad, who had been watching me with a smirk, turned back to the TV and frowned.

"Why is that woman crying?"

"Why is she crying? The man has an incurable disease."

"Oh, that doctor?"

"No, there's a rich man's son. His father passed away, and he became the CEO at a young age. How did you watch the drama? Seo-ho, how do you do the music for movies?"

"That's what I'm wondering. I don't know. Even I can tell from a quick look."

Smiling, I chimed in with Mom, and Dad suddenly stroked his chin and said seriously,

"To be honest, I also wonder about that. How I ended up doing music. I didn't particularly like music when I was young. But one day, I suddenly felt I had to do it. It's strange, isn't it?"

"I was fooled. I thought you really loved music because you worked so hard at it. I thought it was cool to love your job. I fell for that, but it turned out to be different."

"Instead, I love my family."

"Really?"

Mom, who had been laughing in disbelief, glanced at me and suddenly asked,

"Seo-ho, do you have a girlfriend?"

The drama was showing a scene where the female lead was reminiscing about her school days and thinking of the male lead.

"Does he? He's so focused on music. I'm surprised he has friends at all."

"But you don't know. He might have someone he likes."

...Why is the conversation going this way?

I finished the last piece of tangerine and hesitantly got up.

"I don't—. I'm going to organize what I worked on today."

"Leaving so soon is suspicious."

"See, you don't know."

"..."

I went into my room and closed the door.

Click.

"..."

I feel suspicious too. Why did I avoid it?

I had this question even for myself. But the memories of Brinner, especially his unique scent, lingered in my nose, and I shook my head.

Sighing, I sat at my desk.

I turned my gaze to the pile of notes on one side and pulled one out to open it.

[Incheon-London-Paris-Genoa...]

I was organizing the places to travel to.

There's only about a year left.

It might seem a bit early, but it was different for me.

What I want to see, what I want to experience there.

Because it's the time my previous life lived.

'There's one more thing I'm writing for that.'

I closed the notebook and pulled out another one.

A diary written in German. A past diary. I write it whenever a fragmentary or vague memory comes to mind.

Today, a few memories came to mind, so I didn't close it and picked up a pencil.

I took out the score I wrote today from my bag and opened it. After looking at the score for a while, I gripped the pencil and started writing the diary.

[While preparing the late portrait of my father, I was visited by Haydn.]

I wrote one line and paused to think.

Maybe because I'm a musician who dislikes cliché melodies. The cliché expression seemed inappropriate, as if I were a novelist.

Thinking of the procession that followed Haydn in the past, I pressed the pencil down again.

[With his largest instrument.]