The Forest of Wool and Steel Read online

  Mr Yanagi looked over at me and smiled. ‘Why not? It’s fine so long as we don’t do it too often. So where is this popular noodle place, anyway?’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s a metaphor.’

  Disappointment washed over Mr Yanagi’s face.

  ‘I’ll look for one – a place you’ll really like,’ I said.

  Mr Yanagi’s eyes stayed firmly shut after this.

  As I drove I mulled over the day’s activities. The client’s remarks weren’t just from spite, I decided. Something really was missing from the sound I had created. Mr Kamijo might not be the most diligent pianist, and might not have touched his piano at home for some time. But when he did, he sensed that something wasn’t right – that the piano sounded different from usual.

  Mr Yanagi was capable of things that were way beyond me. I knew this, but still it was scary to have a client confront and reject you like that. And it was doubly scary that I had no idea what it was I had done wrong or had missed.

  ‘Scary? What is?’

  I had thought Mr Yanagi was asleep and his sudden question gave me a jolt, not to mention leaving me embarrassed. I’d apparently spoken aloud the thoughts running around in my head.

  ‘Weren’t you scared when you first started out?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t you wonder what you’d do if you turned out not to be any good at tuning?’

  Mr Yanagi sank back in his seat, eyes narrowed at me. ‘I suppose I wasn’t. Or maybe I was.’ His eyes opened wide. ‘Are you scared?’ he asked.

  I nodded silently.

  ‘That’s all right. If you’re scared, it’ll spur you on. You’ll work as hard as you can to polish your skills. Hold on to that fear a little longer. With so many things being thrown at you to absorb, it would be strange not to feel overwhelmed.’ He chuckled. ‘Don’t worry about it, Tomura.’

  ‘I can’t help it. I’m always so anxious, so frightened—’

  Mr Yanagi raised a hand to cut me off. ‘Who is it who stays on to practise tuning pianos every day after work, hmm? How many do you think you’ve tuned altogether? How many books on tuning do you have piled up on your desk at the office? Read and study to that extent and you’re going to know an awful lot. And you listen to piano music every single night at home, don’t you? You’ll be fine. But don’t be put off if you feel anxious. Now’s the time to be scared, if you’re going to be.’

  Even if I was afraid of the future, the present was even more frightening. I was still totally unable to tune a piano in the way I was desperate for.

  ‘I wonder if you need talent to tune a piano?’ I ventured, and Mr Yanagi turned in his seat to look at me.

  ‘Of course talent’s part of it.’

  Just as I had thought, and it was a big relief to hear. I wasn’t there yet, hadn’t reached the stage where my talent was being tested.

  I comforted myself with the notion that at least at this point talent wasn’t what was needed – I must not let the word ‘talent’ distract me, or use it as an excuse to give up. Experience, practice, effort, knowledge, a quick mind, perseverance and passion. If I didn’t have enough talent, I could make up for it with all of these. If one day in the future they were no longer enough for what I needed, then I could give it all up – but the thought of this terrified me. It must be so frightening to admit finally that you don’t have what it takes.

  ‘You see, talent will out if you really love something. A tenacity, a fight in you that keeps you in the fray no matter what. Something like that. That’s the way I’ve come to think of it.’ Mr Yanagi spoke in hushed tones.

  Don’t Give Everyone a Harley

  ‘Mr Akino,’ I called out, but got no response. ‘Mr Akino,’ I called out again, and he finally noticed and looked up abruptly.

  ‘What is it?’ He lifted his hand to his ear and drew something out.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘An earplug.’

  The surrounding noise must bother him, I figured, but then it hit me. It’s for tuning. He’s trying to protect his ears.

  ‘I do have a very sensitive pair of ears, you know,’ Mr Akino said, poker-faced. ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘Would you let me come along with you?’

  ‘On what?’

  I wanted to learn what Mr Akino had dubbed the boom-snap, the high-and-low-end approach to tuning. I think I felt this way because I’d become so aware of the extent of my own shortcomings. ‘I’d like to watch you while you tune, if you’d let me.’

  I bowed and he pulled a long face.

  ‘No, thanks, I’ll find it hard to concentrate.’

  ‘Please. I’d like so very much to come along and see you at work.’

  I bowed again and he glanced down at the yellow earplug in his hand.

  ‘I doubt you will find it very interesting.’

  I took this to mean that, however reluctantly, he was giving me the go-ahead, and I thanked him heartily.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up. It’s just plain ordinary tuning.’

  It’s plain ordinary tuning that I wanted to know about – to see Mr Akino’s plain ordinary way of doing things.

  ‘I’m really looking forward to it.’

  Still looking none too pleased, he’d already shoved the earplug back in place.

  The house I visited with him the following day was, as advertised, an entirely normal one. A typical one-storey house with an upright piano, nothing special. But as I was to learn, the way Mr Akino tuned was far from ordinary.

  First, he was amazingly fast, faster than anyone else I’d ever seen. A process that would normally take just under two hours he finished in half the time, and he made it look so easy. No wasted work, everything carried out with perfect precision. The tuning was over before I knew it, and there he was already replacing the front panel, and polishing up the keyboard and mahogany top board with a cloth. He returned a Beyer practice book to its place on the piano and called out to the owner, who was in a back room. The way he spoke to the lady of the house was so kind it was hard to believe he was the same stern Mr Akino I knew. They settled on an approximate date one year later for the next tuning.

  He made his way out of the house, all smiles, but as soon as we were outside he reverted to the old grumpy Mr Akino I knew. We walked together to where we’d parked a little way off.

  ‘That wasn’t particularly interesting, was it?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, it was,’ I said. ‘I found it really interesting.’

  ‘Really? Not me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ Mr Akino said, waving his hand to emphasize the point. ‘I finished pretty swiftly, didn’t I. I don’t have to pull out all the stops in that household. Did you notice – a primary-school kid in the family using Beyer practice books?’

  I’d noticed the practice book. That wasn’t so unusual – primary-school pupils often used Beyer books in the early stages. Did he mean he was bored by the humdrum nature of the job?

  ‘The height of the stool was a giveaway, wasn’t it? The child in that family is in the upper years of primary school but still using a simple Beyer primer. Not exactly a kid who’s crazy about the piano.’

  ‘I guess so,’ I said, although it didn’t feel right to me. Just because the pianist wasn’t that enthusiastic, it didn’t mean it was OK to do a half-hearted job of tuning. And I liked Beyer as a composer, with his straightforward gentle melodies.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing – I don’t finish quickly because I am sloppy. I can handle a simple tuning in thirty minutes.’

  I’d seen it with my own eyes so I knew it was true – Mr Akino’s tuning was backed up by experience and technique, and he had a deft touch.

  ‘I remember, Tomura, how you once said you couldn’t quite swallow the idea of adjusting the tuning according to the client, right?’

  He remembered. That was surprising. It’s true I did think that, but I didn’t recall ever saying it aloud. I never would have expected Mr Akino to give my reaction any
thought.

  ‘A person who usually rides a 50cc motorbike won’t be able to manage a Harley,’ he said. ‘It’s the same in this situation. If you adjust it so the touch is really sensitive, it’ll actually make it harder for someone to handle who doesn’t yet have the technique.’

  As I unlocked the car I ventured to disagree. ‘But if you practise, you can learn to ride a Harley.’

  ‘It depends on whether or not you want to. At the moment this person can’t and they’re not showing any interest in trying. In a case like that, I think the kinder thing to do is to get the 50cc motorbike in the best shape possible for them.’

  Who knows? He could be right.

  ‘Personally, I like to adjust the action of the movement, so that when I play it has a more sensitive response. But with this sort of client I hold back and adjust the touch so it’s duller and less resonant. If you have limited play in the action of the keys, any weakness on the part of the pianist will be less detectable. I intentionally adjust the piano so it doesn’t resonate as much, bearing in mind the nature of the client.’

  ‘I see.’

  Mr Akino climbed into the passenger seat and quietly shut the door. ‘It’s really not very interesting. I’d much rather do a Harley.’ He turned to stare out of the window.

  I had nothing to say. It’s not that he couldn’t, it’s that he didn’t. Some people simply can’t play a piano if it’s too responsive. He wasn’t making fun of the people who couldn’t play it, but was actually being respectful towards them. No matter how well an amateur primary-school player can hit a ball, you can’t just go handing him a full-sized bat. It’s simply too heavy.

  ‘It seems like such a shame, though.’

  For Mr Akino, for the piano, for the primary-school pupil who only takes practice swings with a child’s bat.

  Mr Akino had his yellow earplugs in now and didn’t reply.

  Some of Us Are Blessed

  ‘He’s coming next year!’

  Miss Kitagawa in our office was bubbling over with excitement as she gave the name of a famous pianist – a popular French performer whose nickname was Prince of Piano, or Master of Piano, or something like that.

  ‘He’ll be at the hall over there,’ she continued.

  By over there she meant over in another town, which had a wonderful concert hall. They had quite a few pianos, and whenever a famous pianist visited Japan, the kind whose recitals sold out months in advance, they would always use a Riesenhuber piano, the mark of a first-class concert hall. We had to accept that no great pianist would choose the modest hall in our own town – unless talked into it by Mr Itadori and his contacts – and that only tuners who worked exclusively for Riesenhuber were assigned to that particular breed of piano.

  Mr Yanagi had overheard us and shrugged his shoulders. ‘What can you do if it’s in another town?’ he said.

  A towering presence in the world of piano manufacturing since the early days, the Riesenhuber company always dispatch their own tuners, regardless of distance. No local tuner is permitted to handle or even touch their instruments. Of course their employees are highly skilled, but they are also well known for their arrogance, unabashed in their contempt for anyone not connected with their illustrious firm.

  ‘I’ve always hated the word “illustrious”,’ Mr Yanagi said, ‘probably because it implies an elite I’ll never in all my life have any connection with. I could stand on my head and still never be a match for them.’

  ‘Standing on your head isn’t going to get you to their level, Mr Yanagi. You have to stand on both legs, upright, or you won’t be steady enough.’

  Mr Yanagi stared at me dubiously as if he couldn’t quite work out if I was joking or not.

  ‘But we do have Mr Itadori on our side,’ he continued proudly. ‘They may be an illustrious firm and all that, but how many people do you think are better tuners than him? How many other people can make a pianist and their audience quite so happy? Even in the unrivalled Riesenhuber company, their tuners will be a mixed bag. I defy them to show me someone better than Mr Itadori. Don’t you agree, Tomura?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I replied. Mr Itadori’s tuning was amazing. He was in a league of his own.

  ‘The only ones who can touch this make of piano are employees of this company – have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous? The world is full of pianos and tuners. I could understand if they’d won some competition and the right to tune it. But they won’t even let us compete. That’s about all you can expect from a so-called illustrious company resting on its laurels. Not that I care one jot – that’s not what we’re aiming for.’

  His eyes flickered as he mulled something over for a moment, but then he glanced up. ‘Did I just say something cool?’

  ‘Not really,’ I said.

  ‘Oh well, whatever.’ He gave a small laugh.

  I understood where Mr Yanagi was coming from, though. The feeling that they should appoint tuners who were highly skilled, pure and simple, and not be complacent. But still, wouldn’t a technician from the company that manufactured a particular piano, a tuner who worked exclusively for that make, know their pianos best?

  ‘Yanagi.’ Mr Akino was looking at him from a desk opposite and his eyes narrowed. ‘So you are aiming for – what, exactly?’ He had now taken off his silver-framed glasses and was cleaning them with a special cloth. ‘I think your logic is a little off.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Mr Yanagi’s voice rose sharply at the end of his question. He obviously didn’t agree.

  ‘We aren’t the ones who set the goals,’ Mr Akino said. ‘Whether it’s for a concert or a competition, the piano exists on behalf of the person playing it. It’s not the place of the tuner to butt in.’

  ‘I’m not trying to butt in. I’m just saying there should be room for a goal we can all aim for.’

  A goal we can all aim for. I, for one, couldn’t see it.

  ‘Also, the piano is not just for the person playing it,’ Mr Yanagi continued. ‘It’s for the people who will hear it, too – for everyone who loves music.’

  The office suddenly fell silent and you could certainly have heard a pin drop.

  Polishing the lenses of his glasses, Mr Akino looked up. ‘You think you said something cool, don’t you, Yanagi.’

  Sitting at the desk facing his, Miss Kitagawa covered her mouth to hide a smirk.

  ‘Ah, you got me there.’ Mr Yanagi scratched his head, trying to paper over the dispute by acting as though he was simply clowning around. But the conversation wasn’t over.

  Uncharacteristically, Mr Akino had more to say. ‘Every tuner would like to have a world-class pianist play the piano they themselves have tuned. But only a handful of us ever achieve it’ – he paused for a moment – ‘A handful of only the most blessed members of the trade.’

  He’d said blessed, but wasn’t he trying to say something else? About tuners who had reached a certain level of excellence and skill?

  The phone on Mr Akino’s desk rang, ending the conversation.

  If it was a question of being blessed or not, then I guessed I’d be in the unsuccessful category. The nuances of sound that a highly skilled tuner must be able to distinguish and what I myself had been brought up with were worlds apart. The soft hotohoto-plunk of ripe chestnuts falling to the forest floor. The rustling sharashara of leaves brushing against each other. The chorochoro trickle of snow sliding down the lengths of a thousand creaking branches. I’m not able to illustrate those sounds quite precisely enough in words: the ear recognizes sounds far beyond what can be expressed through simple onomatopoeia.

  It’s only natural that someone with an ear trained by playing the piano from childhood would develop a far greater acuity than someone who grew up ignorant of the highest-quality music.

  But that wasn’t what bothered me. I felt tripped up by Mr Akino’s words, about to stumble and fall.

  Did I really hope to have a world-class concert pianist play a piano that I myself had tuned? No matter how
much I tried, I just couldn’t picture it.

  Even Pianos Deserve Second Chances

  That evening, Mr Yanagi received a call. After hanging up he came over. ‘They cancelled on me.’ He was frowning, which was out of character for him. We often had cancellations, but I’d not seen him react this way before.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ I asked. And then it hit me. ‘Was that the Sakuras?’

  Yuni and Kazune’s home.

  ‘Yes, the twins’ place,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe they had exams to study for.’

  Or perhaps they had a performance coming up. There were times when they had to practise and couldn’t spare the two hours it would take for a tuning. It was entirely possible they wanted to use the time to rehearse and so had put off the appointment.

  ‘No, that doesn’t seem to be the case,’ he said. ‘They didn’t postpone it. They cancelled entirely.’

  I felt my heart flutter a little. ‘Maybe they were in an accident.’

  The words came out without me thinking, and Mr Yanagi reacted harshly.

  ‘Don’t even joke about it.’

  I couldn’t help it.

  ‘Do you want to call them?’ he asked me.

  I shook my head. I was too scared. Frightened I might hear something devastating.

  Mr Yanagi walked away from his desk. He looked as if he might ring their home directly from his mobile. I didn’t want to know. I’d realized there was another possible reason. Yuni and Kazune were perfectly fine and still playing every day. Perhaps they simply didn’t want us to tune their piano any more. They’d decided to ask another firm of tuners to do it.

  Sadly, that wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility. But as long as Yuni and Kazune were both fine, well, that was far better than the alternative.

  Mr Yanagi came back a little later. ‘She can’t play any more.’

  I couldn’t believe it. ‘Can’t play? Who can’t?’

  ‘I don’t know. She didn’t say. It seemed too awkward to ask.’