4th movement: Allegro allargando
Chiaki woke up the next morning at 5:52. He dressed slowly, deliberately, and scrutinized the dingy room for anything he may have forgotten to pack into his meticulously tidy suitcase. He knew he would find nothing—he had barely unpacked—but he continued biding his time, as if waiting for something to happen in the few minutes he hoarded, minutes robbed from the frenzied exactitude of his normal life. But the schoolyard was quiet and the streets were empty, save for the tumbleweed scuttling across the dusty path.
He left the shabby room, handed in the key, and dragged his suitcase over the pebbly road to the station, mechanically, heavily. He was loath to leave the shabby town; however hopelessly and laughably, he had hoped—what? He didn't know, or wouldn't admit to what he hoped. Perhaps he hoped to hear her play again, or see her just to test if his heart would throb in that addicting vertigo again. Either way, it would lead to nothing—nothing.
He ordered coffee on the train and declined his usual sugar and cream. As it sped away, he watched the liquid slosh dangerously in the cup and forced himself not to look out the window at the retreating seaweed farms. If there was anything worth regretting, he reasoned, it was perfectly beautiful in his memory; looking back at the reality of it in the daylight would take away even that.
The next weeks were spent rehearsing all day and practicing all night. It wasn't that he was behind in rehearsal that he needed the extra time alone; rather, he simply did not know what to do with the extra time—freedom bewildered him. Observers, such as the reporters and critics who were allowed in for previews, thought Chiaki Shinichi was the future of the Tokyo Metropolitan, full of talent and boundless potential. A select few knew that this was his swan song, and Chiaki could feel it every time they hushed up as he walked by. Chiaki came to detest swans, in those two weeks.
It was an hour before the concert.
Chiaki sat in the dressing room, ready to get it over with. He was aware of the squeezing, pulsating sensation in his gut and the overwhelming terror that threw his heart into a nauseating rhythm, but everything was clouded over by a numbness, an impatience with the whole affair. It didn't matter, anyway—after he gave the most evocative, moving, brilliant performance of his life, he would be presented with some inane, hollow "token of appreciation" and sent on his way to a "bright future" in Canada. So bright, in fact, that Chiaki prepared himself to be blinded by the snow. Then, in the obscurity of backstage he would hear someone announce the opening of auditions, out there in the spotlight he once took for granted. The audience would applaud; perhaps there would be some murmurs of regret, but his name would be forgotten come next concert.
He wanted to scream, to punch a wall, to throw a tantrum. Instead, he lifted his violin on his knee and polished the lustrous wood, rubbing small circles over every grain. The doors of adjacent dressing rooms opened and closed and the hallway was full of the bustle and chatter of the other musicians, nervous and excited and bursting with all the usual thrill of the pre-concert frenzy, unaware that anyone so near could be feeling so differently than they. Chiaki hated it, yet when running footsteps approached his door, he found he much preferred to be forgotten than pitied. The clock-digital, thankfully-dumbly displayed 6:45. Chiaki sighed, picked up his violin, and trudged to the door, hoping to show the messenger that maybe he was a failure as a performer, but he still knew when he had to be backstage, thank you very much.
He jerked open the door. He caught a glimpse of papers and an afro, and promptly slammed it shut. He thought he had perhaps overreacted, and cracked open the door when he got over the initial shock at being bombarded by Masumi. He nearly slammed it shut again when he saw an eye staring back at him, but the timpanist's fingers gripped the edge of the door and papers fell down, stuffing the crack.
"Chiaki-sama!" Masumi pried open the door, causing the papers to spread out more and pool around their feet.
Chiaki backed away, letting the other man in. Avoiding his gaze, Chiaki picked up one of the papers on the ground. It was a simple piece of looseleaf, folded in half and covered in crayon-colored drawings. The paper shook in his hands as he unfolded it, enthralled by such trepidation as he had only experienced before opening his first music exam results envelope, or in the moment before his cue to walk on stage, or as he stood against a wall, about to look around the corner into a dusty kindergarten classroom in a seaweed farming village.
And, as with all those other times, the suspense resolved into cathartic bliss that flooded his veins and gave him such relief and happiness that he wondered if he had perhaps wandered into someone else's life by accident. For sure enough, among the crude flowers and purple suns strewn about the slightly crumpled paper were scrawled the messy words, thank you.
Ignoring Masumi, Chiaki knelt and picked up another, and another of the precious pieces of scrap paper, full of scribbles and dirt streaks and grass stains.
Thanks for playing!
That was great!
You were terrible, but for some reason, sensei has been much happier and she's even started playing again!
That last one was particularly dirty, and baseballs were drawn all over it. The boy had even drawn two stick figures on the back, apparently playing catch.
Chiaki had never been so moved by any praise or reviews or thanks.
"Chiaki-sama is so great! You have so much fan mail; even our conductor and manager were overjoyed for you when they saw me coming down the hall just now." Masumi danced from one foot to the other, hands pressed to his cheeks in a ridiculous show of joy.
Gathering all the thank you notes up and shuffling them into a neat pile, Chiaki tucked them away into a pocket of his violin case and carefully zipped it up. He closed his eyes and thought back to the dusty little classroom and the moment came back, the music enveloped him, he could see her sitting there playing and once more, he felt the delicious, bubbling joy in his chest when she allowed him to share in her music. He knew what he had to do.
"Stop dawdling, Masumi. The show's about to start." Dusting off his suit, he brushed past the timpanist and strode down the hall towards the stage. Tonight, he would give the audience a performance-for tonight, there was someone he wished to impress, aside from himself.
Nodame hummed as she skipped down the path to the school. She wasn't, in fact, particularly happy that morning; not only was it six o'clock, but she had actually woken up half an hour earlier and was so restless she had resolved to get up. She skipped because the tune she was humming electrified her being and she could not wait to hear it again, feel it course through not the speakers of the old computer in the public library, but through warm, dusty keys into her fingers. She closed her eyes and stretched her hands out in front of her, mimicking the movements that would pull the beautiful sounds from the keys, softer to the touch and more familiar due to the layer of grime that most people attributed to common neglect. It was astounding how clearly she could hear it, almost as if the music pulsed more strongly within her heart as she got nearer to her instrument. It was just as she had heard it last night-the sparkling technique, the compelling dynamics, the wistful strains and swells of music that bespoke a sense of jubilance and freedom and…
Her memory became muddled. She was sure she had heard that triumph, that release and joy in his playing last night. It had been the epitome of showmanship, enveloping the audience-even those watching through a computer screen-with a sense of having a share in that music. Yet, this was less than that; the sound would be too quiet in a hall, too focused to touch every member of a thousand-person audience, too personal and tender to please critics, who would only hear an excess of rubato. It was how Nodame loved to play when she was alone, immune from the judgment of the cold, impersonal masses and the need to conform to expectations. But also it was infinitely more than what she had heard online last night, for this was raw, and pure, and only hers.
Her fingers stilled; the music ceased. She opened her eyes. Inches from her still-outstretched hands, at the door to her school, stood Chiaki.
He lowered his violin and smiled, somewhat sheepishly. His hair was tousled and there were light rings under his eyes, but standing there in front of her with the music seemingly still lingering in the air between them, he was possibly the most beautiful thing she had ever witnessed.
"Gyaboo…"
She wished she had something else to say, some way of translating her thoughts so that others would understand. She opened her mouth-
"You're gorgeous."
Her mouth remained open as she gaped at him, doubting her ears, yet knowing that her joy was real. Her insides melted as he smiled again, at her, and the ecstasy was bubbling up, making her chest tingle and quiver with something like laughter, but more tremulous, more exhilarating.
Before she could react, he stepped forward and pressed his lips to hers.
She froze for a moment before smiling into the kiss and wrapping her arms around his neck, breathing in the scent of shampoo and sheet music and train station coffee with a lot of cream.
When she finally pulled back for breath, they remained in their embrace and she rested her cheek against the hollow of his neck.
"What was that?" she asked.
"A kiss," he murmured against her hair. "Baka."
She laughed and the vibrations coursed through his whole being.
"Thank you," he said. "For saving me." He hoped she understood, for he himself was not sure what he meant. Perhaps she had saved him from polar bears and plane rides or the humiliation of a forced resignation or the criticism of the musical community-or maybe from a life of loving only half of his career and identity.
But either way, she shook her head-he tried not to shiver as her hair brushed against his throat. "No, I should thank you. I'd almost given up on piano before you came," she said.
He held his breath, waiting for the dramatic self-reveal that was sure to come. What was her past? What was the story behind this seemingly inane woman?
"But now that I've fallen in love, I could play all day!"
He slapped a palm to his forehead and decided that falling for Nodame was possibly the dumbest thing he had ever done. Especially, he suddenly remembered, since he didn't even know her real name.
"Uh…" He shut up and organized his thoughts a bit more. "Nodame-san. What's your real name?"
She smiled and stepped back. She held out her hand. "Noda Megumi. Pleased to meet you, Chiaki Shinichi-san."
His lip curved upwards. "I look forward to getting to know you." Out of all the handshakes he had shared, this was the warmest; out of all the times he had said that phrase, this was the most sincere; out of all the introductions he had exchanged, this was the first time he already knew the other better than words could tell, yet could not wait to know more. And as she led him down the hallway to his favorite piano in the world, he reflected that for once, sacrificing his sleep to jump on a train had been worth it.
The End.
And there you go! Thanks for reading!