Never Land

Never Land

  Louis Arata

  Copyright 2014 Louis Arata

  All rights reserved.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover image: Oberhof, Nordische Kombination, Leopold Tejner. Attribution: Bundesarchiv, Bild 183-09632-0021 / Quaschinsky, Hans-Günter / CC-BY-SA

  ISBN:

  ISBN-13: 978-1311667076

  Never Land

  by Louis Arata

  The best part of a winter day was a stretch of ice on the sidewalk. Kyong took a defiant sprint and slid from one end to the other. As she hopped off, she gave the surrounding apartment buildings an Olympic bow. No one was there to applaud.

  Beneath a slate sky, she swung her arms to generate warmth as she crunched through a crust of old snow. She trekked across the empty campus, through the university’s main gate to the Music Building. It was a week until her recital, and she had a lot to work on. Today she planned to flex her muscles on Chopin’s Polonaise.

  She unlocked the practice room, which was stuffy and cold, with stale brown walls and a single, narrow window overlooking the frozen lawn. Florescent lights reflected smudge marks on the Kawai from previous hands. After situating the bench, she lifted the rail, and waited a moment to drink in the ambient noises: a radiator hiss, someone’s footsteps down the hall, another student practicing the flute. Then she shut them out and, positioning her hands above the keys, taking an anticipatory breath, she plunged in, all hands and feet, beneath the surface of the Polonaise.

  Before she was twenty bars in, her cell phone rang. Grunting in disgust, she stopped and dug the phone out of her purse. “Hello?”

  “You made it in,” said Alex. “It’s so cold, I should’ve driven you.”

  “It wasn’t bad. I’m just getting down to work.”

  “What’re you practicing?”

  Against her will, she had to smile because Alex always expressed such enthusiasm for her music, even though he couldn’t distinguish between Chopin and Debussy. His favorite composer was Beethoven, but that was only because of Schroeder.

  She didn’t feel like explaining her repertoire again, so she asked, “Are they still covering the footage?” She could hear the TV in the background.

  “Not so much. He hasn’t come down yet. They figure it’s got to be any day now.”

  “It’s pretty phenomenal he’s stayed up for so long. What’s the distance now?”

  “Hard to calculate. Over a thousand miles, I bet. The judges aren’t going to make a ruling until he finishes.”

  “Well, obviously he’s won the medal. No one has ski jumped that long before.”

  Alex said, “Yeah, but they may disqualify him because of a time limit. He can’t hold up the event forever. He’s got to come down sometime.”

  Kyong drummed her fingers, impatient to get back to her music. “I hope he doesn’t. I hope he blows every world record off the chart so nobody can ever beat him.”

  “Some other skiers are already trying, but none of them have gotten the lift he had, right when the wind blew him off the hill. He should’ve come down in the beginning, instead of stretching this thing out. He’s just being stubborn. He’s got to land sometime.”

  “You said that already.” Kyong eyed the keyboard. “Listen, not to be rude, but I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  “You want me to come pick you up later?”

  “No, I’ll walk.”

  “Well, keep practicing. You’re going to be great.” Alex told her he loved her and hung up.

  She clicked off her cell, held it like a tiny heart in her hand before tossing it in her purse.

  To restore the abbreviated moment, Kyong took several long breaths, but Alex’s voice stayed in her mind like an ear-worm. While his support meant a lot to her, she knew he would never understand how much music meant to her. At least he was better than her parents, whose support was tempered with caution. There were enough people in the world, she thought, advising her to practice hard but not to get her hopes up.

  A tragic chorus, she called them. She wanted to compose a choral piece called Naysayers, all done in a minor key. The baritone section would be based on her advisor, a frustrated bassoonist. During their last conversation, he intimated that in all likelihood she’d end up teaching music to snot-nosed brats.

  “Maybe that’s what I want to do,” she countered.

  “You could always get a seat in a small orchestra, and that’s a best case scenario.”

  “You make it sound like a terminal sentence.”

  “I just want you to be realistic,” he said.

  She hated that word. “So, I’m not even supposed to try. Is that it? If that’s the case, where do all the true artists come from?”

  His perpetual slouch got on her nerves. “Do you know the percentage of musicians who go on to be famous?”

  “I’m not looking for fame. I’m looking for – ” She paused for the perfect word.

  But he sighed, and that disrupted her thoughts. “Ah, the high ideals. I see it in every grad student. Don’t worry, you’ll learn. You’re good, Kyong, very good. You have exceptional technique. But be realistic. The world is full of people with exceptional technique. Not everyone can perform with the CSO.”

  “I’m not some wide-eyed kid dreaming of being on Great Performances someday. That’s not what I’m about. I measure my success by the quality of my music, when it best expresses who I am.”

  “The joy of performance,” he said with a wistful smile. Without realizing it, he looked at his hands, as though wondering why they weren’t playing. Then, to keep them occupied, he tapped his pencil and picked up his coffee mug again. “I played under Solti once. A magnificent experience. One of the highlights of my life.”

  When he began to reminisce, Kyong had to restrain her impatience. “Then you know what I’m talking about.”

  “I played with him once,” he said pointedly. “And that was it for me. It didn’t get me any other jobs. It didn’t make or break my career. Look at me. A teacher. I don’t even have tenure.”

  “But you got to play!”

  Shrugging, he sipped his coffee.

  *****

  When Kyong auditioned for graduate school, she hadn’t anticipated encountering cultural prejudice. The committee identified her as Asian, and maybe if they had discernment, as Korean. They noticed her thin shoulders, dark sheen of hair, smooth skin and tiny nose. But these features were gulped down as a whole; she would be lumped together with all the other South Korean candidates. They assumed she was studious, talented, introverted, and a consummate perfectionist – but not one acknowledgment of her unique personality.

  Kyong railed against the stereotype. While her grandparents came from Seoul, her parents were completely Americanized. Her childhood only tangentially touched her cultural heritage. She grew up in a predominately white neighborhood in Minnesota, and it wasn’t until high school that she saw herself as different, when a Civics teacher used her as an example of a cultural minority. Not realizing who he was referring to, Kyong looked around to see who it was.

  During her audition, the graduate committee asked about Korean influences in her music. She wasn’t aware of any, but since they expected an answer, she talked about how music transcended cultural lines. When that didn’t satisfy them, she threw them a bone: “The sound compositions of Isang Yun have definitely been pivotal in my development as an artist.” The school admitted her as one of its top candidates.

  When she told her parents about being admitted to the program, their enthusiasm was reserved at best. “Of course, if this is what you want,” her father said. “We
stand behind you. But remember, you must be exceptional to be a great musician.”

  Her mother added, “You have the talent, and you work hard. But can you really make a life out of music?”

  “I can try.”

  Her father answered, “Don’t merely try. Try hard.”

  *****

  Last night her father spoke in a similar vein. She was trying to infect him with her enthusiasm for Chopin, but as typical, it was like stirring mud.

  “I’ve been rehearsing five hours a day. My fingers are like little, tiny Olympic athletes.”

  “Nothing succeeds like success.”

  “Because merely doing a good job isn’t enough.”

  He tried to placate her. “I know you always do your best. I’m only cautioning you not to set your expectations so high that you’ll be disappointed if you don’t reach your goals.”

  “Is being disappointed such a terrible thing? Life has got highs and lows, Papa. You make it sound like I shouldn’t even try if I’m not going to be the absolute best.”

  “You should always do your best.”

  Talking to him was like squeezing a bar of soap; no matter how she tried to pin down her meaning for him, he slipped out of reach. “I always do my best. I can’t not do my best. And maybe someday I’ll be the best that I can be.”

  “Fame is fleeting. You may achieve great heights, but you always have to come down in the end.”

  “Your definition of fame is different than mine,” said Kyong. “Fame is my moment when I’m at my very best, and I know it. It doesn’t have to be in front of a huge crowd at Carnegie Hall. It could happen right here, in one of the practice rooms, and someone is walking past the window and hears my music, and they think it’s beautiful, and they carry that music with them in their hearts. That for me is fame.”

  Her father didn’t know how to respond, so he wished her luck in her recital, and said good night.

  After hanging up, to distract herself from the argument in her head, Kyong turned on the television. There was a news report on the ski jumper who refused to land.

  A member of the German Olympic team, he had not been expected to win any medals. But on his third and final jump, as he approached the bottom of the hill, he must have positioned his body at the perfect angle, his arms arched behind his shoulders, his head straining toward the tip of his skis, and he came within fifteen feet of the ground, straining to capture a few precious inches, and then a few more, coming closer to his personal best, passing that, surpassing the Olympic record, and still he flew.

  Sportscasters speculated that the wind caught him or maybe it was an aberration of nature. The Olympic judges couldn’t explain it any better. Perhaps it was through sheer willpower and determination. He passed over the end of the course, over the heads of spectators, over the fences, and kept going like an eagle.

  The media went wild. Entire sportscasts were devoted to the ski jumper’s performance, which now had entered its fourth day. There was myriad speculation on how long he could last, how long the wind would hold him up, and whether the Olympic officials would automatically award him gold or whether he’d be disqualified because his jump broke all bounds of what was humanly possible.

  Professors of physics, as special commentators, reported on the slowly decreasing trajectory: an object moving at a constant speed would eventually succumb to the influence of gravity.

  One delighted scientist added, “But the trajectory of success should never be subject to the laws of physics.”

  *****

  After rehearsing an hour, Kyong took a break for fresh coffee. In the student lounge were Monica, who’d been playing the flute earlier, and Steven, a music theory major.

  Monica scooted over on the plastic couch to give her room to sit. “Chopin, Chopin, Chopin, that’s all you’ve been playing lately. I hear it in my sleep.”

  “Is this for a recital?” asked Steven.

  Monica pointed to the flyers on the bulletin board. “Haven’t you seen her face everywhere? It’s next week.”

  “Lots to get done before then,” said Kyong.

  “You’ll do great. You always do. Besides, once it’s over, it’s over! You won’t have to worry about it again. It’ll be done!” She heaved a sigh, as if the relief were her own.

  “You hate performing that much?”

  “No, I hate the pressure that much.”

  “Then why be a musician if it drives you crazy?”

  Monica shrugged. “I keep hoping to get over these nerves. The pressure to be perfect is so immense in my family. You know, if you can’t do it right, why bother at all?”

  Steven nodded. “You ever read any of Pierre Bourdieau?”

  “Oh god, not another philosopher!” moaned Monica.

  “He had this concept of field. All artists, performers, whatever – they’re jockeying for that main spot in their field, all moving in from the margins to take over the center spot from some bigwig who’s been there forever. Once the newcomers take center stage, they have the clout to dominate the market. But it’s like playing king of the hill. Somebody’s bound to knock you off the top sooner or later.”

  “What if nobody ever knocks you off?” asked Kyong.

  “It’s inevitable. It’s the nature of things. Nobody can hold onto fame and fortune forever. Eventually your audience will grow tired of you and want something fresh. It’s an ever-shifting field.”

  Monica plucked one of the posters off the bulletin board. “Your fifteen minutes of fame, baby.”

  *****

  The moment hung, suspended. Her fingers were unwilling to relinquish the keyboard as the last of the music diffused from the room. Around her, the stale brown walls seemed washed in yellow and orange. She eased back the bench, careful not to scrape it on the floor, which would have disrupted her perfect mood. Gently she eased the lid back over the strings, and let her hands spread across the wood to soak up the faint reminiscence of music like a heartbeat.

  Someone on the lawn applauded. By the time she got to the window, no one was in sight.

  Kyong followed a private path across campus. Dusk had settled, and a few globe lights illuminated the falling snow. She crunched through the crust, momentarily wondering which of all her potential futures lay ahead of her. She saw herself as composer, as composed, as being composed.

  She came to the main street, already clotted with new snow. A few cars were navigating the depths, a soft shush of tires.

  A strange whistling came on the wind, and when Kyong looked up, she witnessed a solitary figure sailing toward her down the street. He was suspended about six feet above the ground, his body arched forward, his arms stretched behind his back. His dark-visored helmet hid his face, while his multicolored thermal suit was the unique pelt on some rare animal. He leaned forward, straining to keep himself aloft, and still he flew. It looked as though he disregarded the ground. His will was to stay aloft forever, to never land.

  About The Author

  Louis Arata was eating his lunch outside the Music Building, on the University of Chicago campus, when he stopped reading a book to listen to a performance of Rhapsody in Blue. He wished he’d applauded the unknown artist at the time.

  Check out his blog, All The Words, at https://louisarata.blogspot.com/.