For The Musical Genius (Novel) - Chapter 77
Chapter 77
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Discord
“How did I fix my habit?”
Musicians often have bad habits. When Beethoven was young, his back would curve like a question mark while playing the piano, and Russia’s Vasily would tremble his fourth finger as if it had tendonitis when playing trills. Anna, too, suffered from a habit-like illness. But.
“It was just a moment.”
She fixed it as if by magic. It was as if she had become a different person.
“I still can’t forget that day. Eric from Northern Europe, Zhang Yan from China, and William from England must feel the same. For them, that day was like a miracle. I dare say, no musician I’ve met so far would have acted like that.”
What is she talking about?
“In that brief moment, he identified all our problems just by listening to our performance. I can still vividly hear his voice in my head. ‘Eric, do you know your shoulder slightly drops when you play the violin? Zhang Yan, your tempo unconsciously slows down when you play legato. How much? Hmm, about the size of a bean?’ At first, his words were puzzling. They were issues even we, who had played hundreds of times, hadn’t noticed.”
The undergraduate students in the auditorium listened intently. It was a fascinating story, especially coming from a promising violinist from the Moscow Conservatory, rumored to surpass even Andrei.
“But when he started correcting our performances, we realized his words weren’t false. It was like a dream. We felt as if invisible chains that had bound us were being released. Even the proud William from England shed tears of joy.”
The students murmured, finding the story hard to believe. Then:
“We all sensed it that day. We came to compete, but the person before us wasn’t a competitor. It must have been similar to how those who faced Mozart in his lifetime felt. It was like facing an insurmountable wall. But we were happy. Happy to be living in the same era as him.”
A palpable tension filled the room.
“You asked how I fixed my habit? You must know the legend of the Chapel. That day, I clearly…”
Everyone knew the Chapel in Brussels was a sacred place for musicians.
“I met the god of music.”
*
Suddenly, I thought of alchemists seeking gold.
In the 17th century, alchemist Hennig Brand believed the philosopher’s stone existed and thought it could be produced from human urine. But what he extracted from 60 days’ worth of urine wasn’t gold—it was phosphorus (P). He inadvertently became the first person to discover an element, and it sold for more than gold. Why was he so sure gold could be made from urine? Probably because both were yellow.
‘A 20th-century Hennig Brand.’
It seemed the senior researcher had a penchant for eccentric personalities. The researchers spent more time enjoying tea breaks than handling chemicals. Was this a chemistry lab or a gossip club? The head, Vladimir Tikhonov, even encouraged it. I began to wonder if I had mistaken him for someone else.
“Gregoric Tikhonov, the father of chemistry, said the industrial era would shift its paradigm to focus on chemistry. And I firmly believe that ‘Gryphon,’ developed by Mr. Kang’s team, will be at the center of it.”
Well, he wasn’t wrong. The industrial paradigm would shift, and material source technology would become a key source of national competitiveness. Chemical materials would be as essential as red bean paste in a pastry. Especially for export-driven South Korea, chemical materials were indispensable. But who was the father of chemistry? A renowned scientist?
“Is Gregoric Tikhonov a Russian scientist?”
I had never heard of him. At that moment, Tikhonov proudly shook his head, stroking his nose.
“He’s my father. He’s strengthening the nation through primary industries in Saint Petersburg.”
He was involved in agriculture. But given Tikhonov’s extraordinary nature, his father was surely no ordinary farmer.
“Carbon is small, light, and has strong bonding capabilities. Its four bonding sites allow infinite combinations. But no one dared to develop new materials from carbon. Just as Rome wasn’t built in a day, Gryphon’s development was arduous. Who would have thought of successfully creating a two-dimensional covalent bond in a hexagonal carbon ring? When I heard about Gryphon, I broke down and cried. Gryphon, with its extreme material properties, will usher in a new era of chemistry.”
The doctor’s face was filled with deep emotion, like the Wright brothers crossing the sky. His father, overwhelmed by the praise, was at a loss, but the doctor wasn’t wrong. New materials have always been tools for changing eras.
A chemist once said, as Gryphon’s commercialization approached, that humanity had taken another step forward. It wasn’t an exaggeration. Dr. Tikhonov was seeing the future a step ahead of others.
“What do you think, Hyun? You’ve been looking around our lab with an unusual gaze.”
The talkative doctor turned to me.
“I agree with you, Doctor. If the 20th century was the era of silicon, the 21st century will be the era of carbon. But cautiously, I wonder if your lab can lead that era. Commercializing chemical materials requires many steps, from synthesis equipment to the capabilities of technical personnel.”
I deliberately spoke in Russian so my father wouldn’t understand. He wasn’t well-versed in business and avoided unpleasant conversations. I couldn’t recruit him based solely on a name from my past life.
“Hyun, you’ve been mysterious since I first saw you. Spending a few days together, I see your boldness and vast knowledge. It’s like you’re an isotope, an element with multiple names. You smell like a renowned chemist. Of course, I understand your concerns. But I’m confident. If you recruit our lab, Dungju won’t regret it. But to prove this, Mr. Kang’s assessment is necessary.”
Dr. Tikhonov looked at my father. It was now up to him to decide if Tikhonov’s team could commercialize Gryphon. As I stood to leave, our eyes met.
“Hyun, have you ever considered becoming a chemist instead of a musician?”
His gaze was like that of an old serpent.
* * *
“Father, I’ll stay at the hotel today.”
There wasn’t much I could do at the chemistry lab. Besides, following my father to meet Dr. Tikhonov meant being caught in long conversations, as if I were his apprentice. I almost became an accidental chemistry student.
After my father left, I slowly got ready.
“Tchaikovsky?”
The taxi driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, puzzled. A young Asian boy speaking fluent Russian, asking to go to the Moscow Conservatory. In Russia, taxi drivers and passengers haggle over fares, and foreigners often get overcharged.
“200 rubles.”
“Hey kid, at least 300 rubles!”
“200 rubles.”
I firmly insisted on 200 rubles, and the bearded driver finally gave in. Did he think I’d take a taxi without checking the price? After driving through old streets, past Lenin statues, and complex intersections, we finally saw the Tchaikovsky statue.
“At least 250 rubles…”
“200 rubles.”
At the destination, the driver glared at me. I handed him the money, and he laughed helplessly. He couldn’t get angry at a kid. Outside, students with instrument cases were everywhere. The faint sound of music filled the air. The conservatory had been my main goal since coming to Russia.
“Tchaikovsky, Glinka, Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Rubinstein.”
The walls of the concert hall were adorned with portraits of renowned musicians, as if watching to see if the performers were worthy. How did I get in? It was a free concert day, so I entered without issue, though the stares at the young Asian boy continued.
Then.
A faint resonance. My feet moved on their own. It was Schubert’s piece, one I had played countless times in Korea. Meeting an old friend in a foreign land, my steps naturally followed.
The sound came from a practice room, separate from the concert hall. The door was slightly open, and I instinctively entered. Inside, a young man sat at the piano, crying.
His fingers moved incessantly, tears falling. He looked furious. Schubert’s “Wanderer Fantasy” required immense emotional control and technical skill. The young man’s posture was wrong. As the performance ended.
“Do you have something urgent?”
Startled, the young man turned to me, as if seeing a ghost.
“Sorry, the door was open, so I came in. But why are you hitting the keys like that?”
“What do you mean?”
His wet eyes were filled with confusion. A young Asian boy speaking fluent Russian and acting boldly.
“You’re rushing, especially in the second movement, ruining the rhythm. And your right hand—it looks like you injured it boxing. It’s not tendonitis, is it?”
Before he could respond, I approached the piano, corrected his posture, and sat beside him.
“Use the pedal as you like. From now on, you’ll play only with your left hand. Place your right hand on mine and follow the feeling, okay?”
His eyes asked, “What is this?”
“Shall we begin?”
My voice, filled with an irresistible force, echoed through the room.