Chapter 45
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 45
Chapter Title: Even Now, Calling It Evidence (1)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Pianist Han Yong-seong.
A performer who deserved respect for never stopping his research even as his career grew and his reputation solidified, steadily expanding his own musical world. At the same time, he was an educator who spared no effort in nurturing his students.
His unique interpretations of pieces and distinctive tempo handling—his rubato—divided audiences; some loved it, others hated it. But it suited my taste perfectly.
'Such an incredible person... offering me lessons.'
I wondered if "offer" was too gentle a word.
He had been leading me with those simple words: "Let's have lessons."
"Wasn't the personal lesson schedule supposed to start after midterms?"
I glanced over our friends before turning to the teacher and asking.
He pointed at me with his index finger.
"You wrote on the demand survey that you wanted lessons."
"Yes."
"And I'm going to teach you."
"Yes."
"So what's the problem?"
Now that I thought about it, he was right. Who would question a teacher teaching a student?
I was caught off guard by the suddenness, but calmly considering it, this was the perfect moment to grab his hand and hold on.
"Go on, Do-hyun. We'll study among ourselves."
Just then, Lee Seong-hyuk flashed a grin and beckoned me.
"Without the class rep, this place is full of idiots and moro—mmph!"
Kim Ju-hee, mid-sentence, had her mouth covered by Lee Ha-yeon and could only flail her arms.
Seeing Lee Ha-yeon nod politely to the teacher in that state suggested they knew each other somewhat.
"Alright, let's go, Teacher."
"Good. Let's head to the sixth floor."
The practice room we arrived at following the teacher was a memorable one.
It was the same place where, not long ago during my school service hours, I'd left a note about piano tuning. Hopefully, they'd tuned it properly by now.
I sat at the piano and stole a glance at the teacher's face across from me.
'So this is what he looked like when he was younger.'
I hadn't recognized Pianist Han Yong-seong at first glance because I only remembered him from his later years, with a full head of white hair. A nearly twenty-year gap would confuse anyone.
'He looks incredibly handsome and neat.'
Come to think of it, during the second evaluation, there had been a piano teacher I'd never seen before. It must have been him.
No trace of stubble on his lower face, hair neatly slicked back with pomade. His first impression could be summed up in one word: gentlemanly.
"Hey."
"Yes?"
"You're wondering, aren't you? Why this guy came looking for you and suddenly told you to take lessons."
...Maybe scratch the gentlemanly part.
The teacher leaned in teasingly. It wasn't why I'd glanced over, but since I was curious, I nodded quickly.
"Oddballs recognize other oddballs."
He smiled faintly and stood up.
"I'm not that odd."
"Put some spit on your lips before you say that. Where else in the Piano Department is there a kid like you? I've checked all the records and videos."
I mentally reviewed my actions over the past couple of months and held my tongue.
Class division bet, argument with Myeong Woo-bin, first evaluation, test scores, busking video... Yeah, I could see being called odd.
"Before we dive into serious lessons... We can skip introductions, right? You know who I am."
"Of course. It's truly an honor."
"You little punk, already mastering the art of flattery."
I responded nonchalantly, and the teacher cleared his throat, looking not displeased.
"I value your piano, the music you pursue, the sounds you make, of course... No, in a way, that's everything."
He leaned against the piano diagonally and continued.
"But I don't take the title of 'teacher' lightly. At least in this school, I'm an educator. Not just a knowledge transmitter."
"Yes."
"So I'd like some time to understand you as a person."
His speech and gestures seemed casual, but his philosophy was profound. I'd been deeply impressed by interviews based on this creed more than once or twice.
"Don't make that face like I'm spouting nonsense instead of teaching piano. It hurts my feelings."
"Pardon? No, I'm touched."
"Is that so. Anyway, we'll figure that out over time. Let's start with the piano."
"Yes."
The teacher pulled a few sheets from the folder he was holding and rifled through them lightly.
After a shallow groan of contemplation, he picked one and handed it over. Just two pages of sheet music. The notation looked familiar. It felt like something designed to make performers sweat.
I stared at the score blankly, then looked back at the teacher.
"Chopin Sonata No. 3, right?"
"What? How'd you know? You memorize scores or something?"
"I like it, so it stuck with me. This coda is killer."
"This is nuts... You haven't played it, though."
"It's nearly thirty minutes long."
"Memorizing a piece you haven't even performed."
He tilted his head in disbelief, letting out a hollow chuckle.
"You're a weird kid."
"Didn't you track me down because I'm weird? Now you're saying it like it's a bad thing..."
"Ahem. Just play the piano already. That coda won't take a minute. If you mess up, just mess up."
"Yes."
I straightened my posture and stared at the score on the stand. This four-movement work was famous for its coda, boasting extreme difficulty and beauty.
A coda simply decorates the end of a piece, for easy understanding.
'That aside, this score is merciless.'
Notes packed densely enough to cover every white space on the paper, arpeggios leaping above and below the staff, a tempo racing like a sprint.
At my current level, just keeping up with the score would be a win.
The teacher seemed to have prepared this knowing my capabilities, so he wouldn't expect perfection.
'Why choose this piece, this coda specifically?'
I had no idea. But one thing was clear.
I couldn't fake it.
I had to show myself as I was, unfiltered, to learn properly. He'd mentioned that himself.
I closed my eyes. And recalled the performers who'd left the deepest impressions on me with Chopin Sonata No. 3.
'Pollini, Argerich, Rapf, Lipatti...'
They'd practically been my teachers up to now.
I exhaled lightly and opened my eyes. My mind sharpened.
I placed both hands on the keys.
Han Yong-seong didn't expect flawless playing from Kwon Do-hyun—not even close.
He wanted to gauge the boy's vessel. His growth potential, the depth of roots extending underground.
That was why Han Yong-seong chose the coda from Chopin's Piano Sonata No. 3. Many reasons backed it.
'Tests basics, advanced technique, and understanding of the piece all at once.'
Efficient, in short.
The difficulty of a work condensing countless fundamentals went without saying. Without programmatic cues, handling the feel of unique harmonies, their progression, the breaths between notes—all crucial.
He needed to learn much in little time. Arms crossed, Han Yong-seong's gaze grew heavy.
'Good start.'
The boy's fingers began swimming over the keys.
A barrage of indiscriminate arpeggios, steady left hand supporting fleeting melodies, sudden vertical chord plunges.
Naturally, Kwon Do-hyun made plenty of mistakes.
'Lack of polish isn't worth worrying about now.'
The performance teetered overall, true. But it didn't feel like the short learning period Choi Je-hun had mentioned.
Just the second evaluation—mastering Tchaikovsky's concerto perfectly in two insufficient weeks—proved it. Moreover, for a self-taught player without proper instruction, reaching this level astonished Han Yong-seong.
No bad habits, no so-called "cues," was praiseworthy too. Evidence of solid basic training methods.
'Just one thing nagging...'
As he watched the bullet-train pace, Han Yong-seong's brow slowly furrowed.
'Too familiar. Everything.'
The boy had said he'd never played it. Circumstances suggested no lie.
Yet Kwon Do-hyun performed like a veteran who'd studied and analyzed that section for ages. Emitting a master's aura, even.
Where to place accents, how to treat tempos for main voices, how to emphasize left-hand chords in fast passages...
He seemed to have answers to all such questions.
'Why so familiar?'
How should a performer approach an unfamiliar piece?
Without special stories or references, focus on the score: memorize the flow mentally.
Relations between notes, chord sequences, key, tempo, dynamics, voice weaving, motive and theme development.
This demands extensive training. Overwhelming for typical music majors—yet Kwon Do-hyun did it in moments?
'Impossible.'
Typically, performers grasp, dissect, absorb, internalize, apply.
Kwon Do-hyun skipped dissect, absorb, internalize.
Grasp, then immediate apply. He'd covered all in the minute staring at the score.
Unbelievable, yet eyes and ears confirmed it.
'Can't happen without basis.'
Even a favorite piece deeply etched wouldn't suffice.
If hearing alone allowed replication, who'd lock themselves in practice rooms? Just listen at home.
His output carried conviction born of substantial score analysis time.
'But it's sloppy.'
Despite answers, fingers couldn't keep up.
Like swinging a massive sword before muscles developed. The piano screamed of inadequacies while desperately yearning growth amid struggles. Shocking.
Having taught many, this was unprecedented. Even abroad, no such student.
Han Yong-seong's shaken eyes fixed on Kwon Do-hyun. The boy ended with a clean fermata, sending echoes lingering.
"...I messed up a ton."
Kwon Do-hyun scratched his head sheepishly, smiling awkwardly. Regret filled his gaze toward Han Yong-seong—nothing else.
Stroking his chin, pondering words, the teacher spoke gravely.
"You said you haven't played this before."
"Yeah, no time with assignment pieces and etudes."
Of course. Han Yong-seong's eyes wandered.
"Who taught you piano? You didn't just bang on keys from books."
"Lessons at a studio when I was young. Then I referenced recordings and live performances a lot... The basics mostly came from Lee Ha-yeon."
Han Yong-seong inwardly sighed in relief. Learning from Lee Ha-yeon was a solid start.
"Keep practicing basic technique. Thirds in chromatic scales, wide arpeggios, leaps—your fingers struggle too obviously. This isn't piece-specific."
"Yes, practicing steadily."
"And..."
Tapping his thigh, Han Yong-seong continued.
"Spotting the piece from the score at a glance, beyond it being a favorite—you've analyzed it somewhat."
"...Pardon?"
"From measure 262, the upper voice takes the first B scale transformed."
"B major comes lower?"
"Rondo sonata form."
"Ah... Rondo sonata is ABA form, yes."
Kwon Do-hyun nodded a beat late, visibly confused, unable to follow.
Han Yong-seong pressed on, eyes odd.
"You hit the 273-measure pianissimo near fff, conscious of that theme?"
"What do you...?"
"There, the left hand on si-si—you dropped it an octave. Intentional from the prior descending scale?"
"I, my memory's fuzzy..."
Han Yong-seong sensed the conversation twisting. But without knowing why, brows furrowed repeatedly.
"Final descending cadence—hands in chromatic scale with chord on second inversion. You know that."
"Was it...?"
"Why slow the rubato there? Tritone resolution usually takes tempo slightly faster than a full rest."
"Teacher."
"What."
Kwon Do-hyun, scratching his head with an awkward smile, spoke haltingly.
"I just played it that way because it felt right..."
"So you realized something from harmony or form in the score and played accordingly."
"Well..."
Multiple questions, zero clear answers.
Gazing at the evasive boy, Han Yong-seong sighed in frustration.
'What kind of guy is this?'