In the dark green light of an unnamed restaurant, business deals are made over coconut chicken curry. My dad’s friend grinds his oily teeth, lips cracking as he begins to speak.
“Zirui, I think you would be a really great fit for her”.
I was arranged to meet with his daughter— a beautiful, prodigal pianist.
“She’s very well mannered, you see. My wife deserves the credit– really. I mean, can you imagine, me versus her? Teenage girls are very hard to please”.
He laughs to himself, and his ears inflame as his sweater begins to tear. Flocks of crumbs fell from his chin, drowning beneath crests of vintage merino.
“And I already have one 50 year old teenager to deal with”. There’s a short silence, and just like its inception, a darting roar splits the quiet. “But you know what?”
He wipes his nose.
“No matter how much I spoil her, she never seems to get better. I give her jewelry, and don’t ask her to say thank you. I feed her stomach, and don’t even ask her to stay at the dinner table.”
His irises begin to droop toward my wrist, settling on the warm gold of mother’s bracelet. It’s tattooed in 24 carats, hugging my body like a long-lost relative.
“All I want from her is to play piano, or for her to practice more. She just doesn’t do it! She’s an amazing, amazing pianist, at Juilliard studying, but she is losing her spark”.
It’s awkward in my corner of the table. I sit with my back toward the doorway, cold as the wind traces my nape. There’s nothing said, yet not one person found an opportunity to speak.
I never had any talents my parents could brag about, and comparing my achievements to this girl’s would be like shooting a Nerf bullet at a tank. But I’ve more or less accepted this ordinary lifestyle. Some stars will never get float across the sky, and maybe I should take my seat against the seabed. The stars are born to be bludgeoned; either in violent supernovas or in front of Maserati headlights.
I never took the chance to shine, always hiding myself beneath quilts of doubt; and though I thought I was safe, all that did was blindfold me while I laid across the interstate.
So I accepted his offer to see his precious girl, and took a 6:45 train down to Grand Central. Disassociation has got be a form of time travel, cause when I reached the inside of Lincoln Center, two hours had already passed.
I sprinted toward the Mezzanine, taming my cotton Oxford while trying to find my seat.
At exactly 9:00, the enigma was excavated. Beautiful would be a worthy description for her bloodied fingertips— her face had a visceral allure that no poet could record. Her wide-set eyes were fraternal jades, one imperial and the other golden.
This was no girl. This was a delicate marble goddess with the hands of Rodin, a work of art and the artist herself.
She took her seat at the throne, raising her calloused arms. An exhale flowed from the stage, and her talent blossomed like a lotus beneath the moon. Her long white index blended in with the ivory, but the note that sang was anything but concealed. It was painfully long, like the stretched neck of an albino crane.
The crane began to glide down a waterfall, soaring through the mist until it spotted a woman in a silken robe. It flew down, only resting its wings when it felt the diety against the freshwater haze.
The two wept until the bird’s white legs twisted into ebony, and the woman’s robes aged into dust. The crane wailed with her passing, and flung itself from the peak of 希夏邦马 （Xixiabangma）.
After the story was complete, another took its place before the orchestra could dry their cheeks. This girl had me lost in her heavenly talent, sober yet drunk on the misery she dealt.
To say she was a prodigy was an understatement. Her fingers were fragrant willow branches, flowing through the wind of her musical gift. In these ten minutes, I could hear ten generations of pianists; condensed into a feeling I didn’t know existed.
She rose from her seat, lowered her head, and heard nothing but applause. She left the bright-lit stage, but somehow, her jades shone a little brighter behind the curtain.
When I left the venue, I think I found a part of myself hiding inside the piano. Was embarrassment? My jealousy? For the entire train ride back home, the only thing that calmed me was an imagined encore— where I was the one who sat upon that chair.
This station is, Hartsdale.
The man’s voice shook me from this hypnosis. I stepped out onto the platform, tucking in my button down. There was a warm midnight breeze, and during the walk toward my car, I caught a glimpse of myself in a leftover puddle from the night before.
In the reflection I saw blacks, some blues, and even a little green. My eyes were dull and my face held no shine, but behind my head, I saw the seven celestial sisters, the Pleiades.
They screamed out into the night, regardless their dim glow, and danced together to some invisible song.
I turned my head toward the sky, and faced it toward the water, then back to the clouds again.
In the center of the sisters I swear I saw an octuplet, fading into existence. She wielded a broken white harp, and watched as her sisters danced around her. I reached toward her palm, and she turned to face mine. She offered me the instrument, beckoning a tune from my hungry hands.
I shook my head, sharing a silent smile. Seeing my content, she let the shattered harp fall, spinning me gently to an invisible orchestra.
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