The Forest of Wool and Steel Read online

  I always remember this. Adjusting the fluctuation of sound waves and the pitch – that’s something anyone can master with practice. I was told in no uncertain terms that it had nothing to do with innate skill but was entirely through effort. It didn’t matter whether you could play the piano or not, whether you were zealous, or whether you had a good ear. As long as you practised, anyone could do it.

  The whistle had blown and I had begun the long race, but I wondered: how far had I moved from the starting line?

  ‘The sound is much clearer and distinct now, I think. Thank you.’

  Thanks and a bow of the head.

  Once I’d left a client’s house, I always made a point of jotting down notes about the job, often as soon as I got back to the car. What condition the piano had been in, what sort of tuning I’d carried out, what quality of tone the client was looking for.

  Following this particular appointment I also noted the client’s impression that the piano now sounded clearer and more distinct. The word ‘distinct’ was very important. Even if clients couldn’t quite express what sort of sound they were after, I could read their desires from random comments they made along the way. Today’s client had most certainly been looking for a clarity of sound even if he hadn’t been conscious of this himself – he was so very pleased at the end of the job. I was recording a trail of evidence – a sequence of clues that had led me to this point.

  Some people preferred a softer tone, some a sharper or more acute sound. If they were able to express themselves clearly, then I could tune the piano to fit what they wanted as closely as possible. The problem was that clients more often didn’t know themselves what sound they wanted. Then, through a few stray hints, we both fumbled towards the sound we were after.

  ‘It needs to sound lively.’

  Although I was happy when this particular client, who’d been unsure of what he wanted, was pleased with the tuning I’d done, his final verdict left me confused:

  ‘Thanks to you, it has a more mellow tone now.’

  A lively sound and a mellow sound – how were these compatible?

  The client, not noticing my puzzlement, continued, ‘It’s as though a flat tone has become more rounded.’

  Ah, now I finally understood. Apparently he meant that a slack, relaxed kind of sound had tautened up, become rounded like a crystal-clear drop of water. When I finally understood this, a ray of sunshine seemed to break through. How ideal it would be if we could communicate solely through the voice of the piano.

  People often asked me to make the sound brighter. At first I didn’t give it much consideration. I merely thought that there couldn’t be many people who would be after a darker sound. But now I think differently. I’ve learned that the single word ‘brighter’ has many shades of meaning.

  The basic A above middle C is set at 440 hertz for a school piano. Apparently the first cry of any infant in the world is projected at 440 hertz. Hertz means the number of times per second that the air vibrates. The higher the number, the higher the sound. Until the end of World War Two, A above middle C in Japan was set at 430 hertz. If you go back further in time to the Europe of Mozart’s day, it was 422 hertz. It’s gradually getting higher over the years. Nowadays it’s often set at 442 hertz. Concert pitch for A above middle C for an oboe in an orchestra is set at 444 hertz, and since pianos tend to be adjusted to suit that, their pitch will probably climb even higher – nearly one whole semitone higher than when Mozart was composing. In other words, the sound we perceive now is simply no longer the same A above middle C.

  There’s no reason for standard pitch to change, but the fact that it’s become slightly higher over time must, I imagine, indicate that people want a brighter sound.

  ‘The way the standard pitch keeps on going up, it feels as though everyone’s flustered and in a rush,’ I said.

  Mr Yanagi and I were at a takeaway joint near the office. He was counting out the coins on his palm as we waited for our salmon nori bentos.

  ‘You’re right. At the very least they want the sound to be brighter,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen that too in the last few years – how home pianos are shifting from 440 to 442 hertz. It’d be a little creepy, though, if the client had such perfect pitch they could tell a difference of two hertz.’

  ‘Will the pitch get higher and higher, do you think?’

  ‘That would be my guess.’ Mr Yanagi said this playfully, but then suddenly leaned into me. ‘You know, Mr Akino once said this to me: if you do your best to tune a piano for a brighter sound but the client wants it brighter, brighter still, then it’s better to show them how to modify their own piano technique.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Meaning, it’s not good to rely entirely on tuning to get a brighter sound. Oh, thank you.’

  The two bento meals were ready and Mr Yanagi smiled and patted his stomach hungrily. We grabbed the food from the counter and left.

  Outside, the spring sunshine was spreading its rays through the trees. A gentle breeze carried with it the faint scent of vegetation.

  ‘Simply striking the keyboard with a more confident touch gives greater clarity to the sound. I think he also recommended lowering one’s centre of gravity to put more body weight behind the fingers so as to make the effect more resonant and distinct. In other words, not via tuning but through performance technique.’

  I could understand that. Even if a client asked that we make the action of the keys easier because they wanted a brighter sound, there were times when this just wasn’t possible. It’s not that there would be an issue with the keyboard itself but that the pianist’s touch was too light, so the piano would never ring out, no matter what we did.

  ‘A simple adjustment to the height of the seat makes for a different sound, doesn’t it?’ I said.

  ‘Yep,’ Mr Yanagi responded with a quick nod.

  Strictly speaking, this might lie outside the purview of our job of tuning. But by tweaking the height of the piano stool, the touch on the keyboard will seem easier and the sound brighter. The optimum height for the seat is based on the height of the pianist as well as on how they use their body when they play and the angle of their wrists and elbows in relation to the keyboard.

  ‘I saw a film of a recital with two pianists performing a duet, supported by an orchestra. Something felt odd about it until I noticed that the two stools were set at different levels even though the pianists were of similar height.’

  Mr Yanagi nodded again silently.

  I continued, ‘If you looked carefully you could see that the angle at which the pianists held their arms and the way in which they extended their elbows were different. I imagine they each hit the keys with different levels of pressure, too. I don’t play the piano myself and hadn’t noticed that before. I can only give limited advice, but when I’m tuning I always ask clients to sit down and play so I can adjust the height of their seat. That one small correction seems to brighten the sound.’

  ‘Very true. The seat is often much higher or lower than it needs to be.’

  Sometimes it’s better for them to sit closer to the piano, or further away.

  ‘However—’ There’s always a however. Sometimes no matter what you do or how hard you try, you cannot please the client. Often they don’t react at all. ‘Most of the time you don’t know what they want.’

  ‘Yeah, that happens.’ Mr Yanagi gave a small smile. ‘The thing is, we might be after 440 hertz, but that isn’t necessarily what the client is looking for. They just want a beautiful A above high C.’ He was right.

  We walked on, carrying our bento meals in their plastic bags.

  ‘I think it’s a wonderful thing that all this can be expressed as 440 hertz. Each piano’s different, but they’re all connected by sound, all conversing through the same frequency.’ I felt a little embarrassed by the end of our conversation, surprised by how much I’d spoken during our exchange.

  We sat down on the concrete block beside the shrubbery in the car park.
The endless winter had finally lifted and on sunny days we sometimes ate lunch here. It was still chilly, but after hours in a stuffy room, doing all the detailed work involved in tuning, it was refreshing to eat our meal in the fresh air and to chat.

  Sometimes I’d recall how Mr Akino said, with feigned indifference, that all we needed to do was focus on the high and low notes. ‘We might very well feel it’s all a bit futile if, time after time, we put our hearts into improving the tone but the client isn’t satisfied or simply doesn’t notice. On the other hand, if you do a half-decent job and don’t worry too much about the finer stuff, the client is usually perfectly satisfied. In short, the client doesn’t care if you’re giving it your all or not. Coming up with a good sound – that’s our one and only mission. And if a client feels that a pronounced bass and treble sounds good, then there’s nothing wrong with giving it to them.’

  ‘But still—’ The concern I’d had many times came back to me.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Mr Yanagi pulled his disposable chopsticks apart and looked at me, amusement on his face. Apparently I’d spoken my thoughts aloud.

  ‘No, it’s nothing.’

  But it wasn’t nothing. What I was thinking was: doesn’t this crush the possibility? The possibility of encountering a truly sublime sound? A sound that sends a shiver through your heart, as had happened to me back in the gym of that sixth-form college?

  Sure, I might not be able to produce that sound myself – I was still a beginner – but if you don’t make that your goal, you will never get there.

  Achieve a Sense of Harmony

  The temperature had shot up, and just stepping out into the fresh air was enough to make me feel as though I hadn’t a care in the world. I didn’t normally go out on my days off but was glad I’d done so today – glad I’d made some plans.

  I imagined how the leaves of the white birches at home must all be emerging now, and as I walked, I pictured my small village up in the mountains. I recalled the spring when I left and my younger brother stayed behind. The village had only a single small school for compulsory education. There was no sixth-form college, and so at fifteen I had to leave the village, the mountains and my home. In that sense it should have all been expected. About a year ago, my brother left home too.

  When I came home to visit, I felt I didn’t fit in, especially when my brother was talking happily with my mother and grandma. I’d often escape out of the back door, wander aimlessly through the forest just beyond our house, breathing in the thick green fragrance and listening to the leaves rubbing against each other. Only then would I finally relax. As I trampled the dirt and grass, and listened to the birds calling in the treetops and the distant cries of animals far off on the mountainside, my perpetual queasy sensation of being out of place and not knowing where else to go would gradually melt away. Only on these solitary walks would I finally feel welcome and at peace.

  To my joy and surprise I discovered something similar with the piano. A feeling of acceptance, a sense of harmony with the world. Words were not enough to express my wonder at this, so I sought to express it through sound. Perhaps I was also trying to replicate the atmosphere of the forest through the medium of the piano.

  A small sign on the pavement led me down some narrow stairs to what looked like a basement venue. At the entrance, I handed over my ticket.

  ‘Go in and find somewhere to wait for me,’ Mr Yanagi had said when he’d handed me the ticket the day before, but it was hard to know where an appropriate somewhere was. The ticket said a drink was included with the price of admission, so I decided to get one. The rest of the crowd seemed a little older than me and cooler, too. By cooler I mean that some had dyed hair – blond or red – or spiky hairdos. These people were hip and had confidence, totally unlike me. I felt a little awkward mixing with them and stood to one side.

  Sipping my ginger ale from a paper cup, I studied a poster with the names of the bands that would apparently be playing. Seven bands – none of which I’d ever heard of. I wondered which one Mr Yanagi had come to hear.

  The ginger ale was overly sweet and I left half of it. I didn’t know where to throw the liquid away and put the cup back on the counter. The woman behind the bar glared at me. I had no idea what to do in this situation.

  I pushed open the heavy door of the venue. People had gathered near the stage, which was dimly lit, with a couple of mike stands, huge amps and speakers, and a drum kit at the back. There were two electric keyboards as well, but no piano.

  ‘The show will begin soon,’ a man announced and the crowd in the bar area flooded excitedly on to the floor near the stage. Shoved from behind, I was carried along with the current. There was still no sign of Mr Yanagi.

  The low background music from the PA system suddenly stopped and there were cheers. Shrill voices and deep voices. At this rate I’d never be able to find Mr Yanagi. People pushed from all directions. The stage lights came on, getting an even louder cheer. The band members came on from backstage. One guy had a guitar under his arm, another held his drumsticks over his head. Another … my eyes skipped back to where I’d just been looking. I’d seen that bloke with the drumsticks somewhere before. Why did he seem so familiar?

  My little yelp of surprise was drowned out by the sound of the guitar, and above all by the regular thump of the drums as Mr Yanagi began to beat the hell out of them.

  The steady rhythm surged right up my spine, goaded on by the throbbing bass, the guitar work growing faster and faster and the vocals shrieking alongside. Enough to numb all your senses. The crowd was leaping, bouncing around, cheering, singing along, yelling, everyone doing their own thing. Every twitch of the vocalist’s body worked the audience into a greater frenzy. Probably able to feel the crowd’s reaction, Mr Yanagi, sweat flying, seemed to be having the time of his life.

  The thing is, though, the sound was too loud, so it was impossible to judge if it was any good or not. Maybe it didn’t matter. Up on stage Mr Yanagi looked positively radiant.

  The band played four numbers and finished their set to a wave of cheers and applause. The house lights came on and the tension in the room eased. I used the opportunity to wend my way through the crowd into a clear area.

  Mr Yanagi in a band? And playing the drums? That was a shocker. I mean – drums? My first thought was that it had to be bad on the ears. Even after they stopped playing my ears were still ringing.

  Tomura-kun?

  It sounded as if someone was calling my name. Probably just imagining things. It seemed as if lots of people were speaking to me, some close, some far away, but it was an illusion. I’d have to be careful about the noise level at live performances.

  Tomura-kun?

  I was hearing things again. It had all been too much for my ears. Would Mr Yanagi meet me here? Or would he be out at an after-party with the other band members?

  ‘You’re Tomura-kun, aren’t you?’

  Someone actually was calling my name, right next to me. I turned around and saw a woman I’d never seen before. Short hair, long neck, a really gorgeous woman.

  ‘I knew it.’ The woman grinned. ‘My name’s Hamano. I’ve known Yanagi – Yanagi-kun – for a long time. He told me to wait here for you. You’re exactly how he described. I recognized you straight away.’

  For a moment I wondered how he might have described me. But I was helpless in the glow of that broad smile. ‘Uh, nice to … meet you,’ I stammered.

  ‘Likewise.’

  We bowed to each other. She’d called him simply ‘Yanagi’, in tones of such pride and conviction that his name sounded quite different on her lips. I had a feeling that my Mr Yanagi was poles apart from her Yanagi.

  The door to the hall shut again. The next band must be starting their set.

  ‘Mr Yanagi’s drumming was really good, wasn’t it?’ I ventured.

  ‘It’s so precise, isn’t it,’ she said. ‘Like a metronome.’

  I nodded. ‘Precise and powerful – he really throws himself into it
.’

  Miss Hamano gave a sweet smile and lit a cigarette. ‘Yanagi is fond of metronomes.’ She chuckled. ‘He might get upset if he finds out I told you.’ Elegantly, slowly, she exhaled her smoke. ‘I’ve known Yanagi since we were kids. We’ve been going out for nearly fifteen years. We know everything there is to know about each other.’

  How wonderful that would be, I thought, to have a beautiful woman like this know everything about you, and to know everything about her in return. But I couldn’t think of anyone who was like that for me – beautiful or otherwise.

  A silver ring glinted faintly on the third finger of her left hand, the one in which she held the cigarette. This must be the one Mr Yanagi had wrapped up with a ribbon and given to her.

  ‘Tomura-kun, please take good care of Yanagi for me, OK?’

  ‘To be honest, he’s the one who looks after me!’

  Miss Hamano’s lovely lips straightened. ‘You might not know it to look at him, but he’s quite sensitive.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He used to hate public telephones.’

  Had I heard her properly? The loud music had left my ears ringing. I looked at her so blankly that Miss Hamano laid her hand on my arm and explained further.

  ‘They make public payphones those garish colours, don’t they, so they stand out? He hated the greenish-yellow colour – said he found them quite hideous.’

  I couldn’t catch everything she said and wasn’t completely sure what she was talking about. The word ‘hideous’ sort of hung there in the air. ‘What do you mean, he found public payphones hideous?’

  Miss Hamano stubbed out her cigarette. Her nails were dark and glossy.